
, g v 

. ry 1 

' *P Cr * 

*. o* 


4 O 

1 > *» 




^ d> < 


o. *o\** A 


jA 0 i" 

» o • 

*. <? o' 

• ? 51 
v° i° 

»♦ nO 

a 0 V "■•-’■ 

* -4? ,*i*" . 

* X „/ SA f&°o % A 

z v*V 



% y V 

^ o* *& 4 





o ,.9 <J\ 

* V < 


4 0 * 

<3^ O ^ 

F *o*o’ ,0 

s • • ^ 


„ , „ v, *' r.« 5 .0 

4 ’c^v v / *£ .0 t - 4 






o 9 k 


A v^\ ; 
r / ^ • 

* ^ <. % ^T‘’ .0* 

<A 0 0 « o <f> -V ,,, *£* 

'X < y- o A\Xss^\ u. *6 . <5 v /SP(\l//y^> •*> 


» 4.* X ** 

< y °<p> * 0 " 0 

V 9 * ° • % c\ 

° ^ * 

° . 

* * aV^. 

*. V'tfW .# ^ 




4 


• ^ W 

; ^ 



, 0 ° " • * <> . 

^ ♦VsSVv % *p 

ok ;«2iisk *Sfc 0 « 



Cj, <0 O *o • *. 

<{> A 1 < j 


- „ v . . *» o 

k v ♦ j&?(i v/yz^ * 

u* C k / ^kI \ l//oy :> ry< * 

• ^ Cr • - o V 

^ 4 «« * I i/x^ • 

% vjsw j? v m 1 „ 0 ’ ' 

V "’* .A V *° ,, 


V’ sJLsL'* & A 

A, Ta .A ► 

.V ^ ,4 ♦. 

* V 




,<£ V . 

0 r ' 




& * _ _ 
' • • AT ^ ** ♦ * 

rj^ « a * & 9 

0 + o 


aV>^> 

' * at ^ 

^ 4 V* V* *> 

O • A * A * 

, -O / ••-*-•* 

* *6? :' _, ,. 

<0 v\ * * <o A • 

>v <£■ * <^yM\2P'' Ar ** * 

0° V ^ ... *?#./* 

4O * 1 *,5* ^ 

».&$)« A y. i 




-V** 

- v ___ _ _. • * AV ***\k * 

r^ * ^ V V' d> 

o. *© • * • A <* ** * * ' 

- v o j* • % 


> *"'• AT ^ **«° A 0 

,> <> <<y **• 



^ A <• 


w : 


o 


? sK * 



® - 0 0 a°° ^ * * * 1 w A 

<y f **°- ^ v *••• 

vj'V W ! 


* a«* : 

* ^ ^ • 



• A o 


6 V * A 

• *■ 1 • -» <0 C 0 H ® ♦ V< ^Av 

. *■ 4. O *1 "O' * -r^tVwk.' "c’ 

. jO •T 1 > 


^ o 

^ * 





<\ ' . • « % « 0 ^ ' o • » 

* o^ • t '*- ^o 

G 0 




o V 

4 O •/ 




V ! 








J 


STORIES 


OF THE 




D 



TAF 



* 



By EOL. HENRY INMAN, 

OP KANSAS. 


0 \ 
< 0 
V 



Book Publishing House of Ramsey, Millett & Hudson. 

1884 



.151 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year eighteen hundred and eighty-one. 

By RAMSEY, MILLETT & HUDSON, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C. 


TO CAPTAIN HENRY KING, OF TOPEKA, WHOSE PEN FIRST 
ELEVATED THE LITERATURE OF KANSAS TO THE DIGNITY OF 
THE “ATLANTIC” AND “SCRIBNER,” AND TO HON. C. C. 
SPRIGG, OF ELLSWORTH, AND CAPTAIN HENRY BOOTH, OF 
LARNED, WHOSE FRIENDSHIP HAS BEEN OF THE NOBLEST AND 
MOST EXALTED CHARACTER, THESE SKETCHES ARE INSCRIBED. 



























1 











































































. 








♦ 





















. 


* 














































. 

































































































































































• . 













• • 

















































































% 

















































AUTHORS NOTE. 


The reader is reminded that the Atchison , Topeka 6 ° Santa 
Fe Railroad practically follows the old Santa Fe Trail ', or wagon 
road ', across the Plains , through Kansas and New Mexico. No 
other scope of country on the continent , perhaps , is so rich in his- 
tory and tradition. The advent of the railroad , with its disturb- 
ing and disclosing influences , has made this land a new one to 
every day eyes ; but , in fact, it was already old when the Pilgritns 
landed at Plymouth Rock. It is not possible , of course , in the 
brief space of such a book as this, to give a symmetrical or con- 
nected account of the many strange, stirring and important scenes 
enacted here in such a prolonged and confused period of time . 
The author has contented himself, therefore, with merely gather- 
ing up a few separate and characteristic fragments of its won- 
derful story, yvhich it is hoped will interest the general reader, and 
stimulate further research in this vast field of shadow and mys- 
tery. 











































































f 4 






























4 


























* 


' 




































































































/' * 



































4 ' 


























> 














CONTENTS. 


How Pawnee Rock was Named. (Illustrated.) .... i 
V ) The March of Francisco Vasquez de Coronado ... n 

/ The Legend of Tepeyacac 60 

The Fight on Lowrey’s Island Twenty Years ago . 74 

/ A Legend of Pawnee Rock 83 

Another Legend of Pawnee Rock 94 

x A Terrible Ten Miles Ride. (Illustraied.) . . . ito 

/ The Massacre at Babb’s Ranch 150 

The Scouts’ Last Ride 164 

V Wal Henderson 194 

< Cannady’s Ranch 312 

^ Gen’l Forsyth’s Fight on the Arrickaree Fork. (Il- 
lustrated.) ‘ 251 

A Lively Race with the Kiowas 269 

^Se-Quo-Yah 274 

\y Will the Buffalo Become Extinct? 286 


PAWNEE ROCK. 




STORIES | OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


HOW “PAWNEE ROCK” WAS NAMED. 

I have no doubt that many of my readers have heard of 
“Kit Carson,” the famous scout, Indian fighter and brave 
“frontiersman ; ” and also, that they have heard of “ Pawnee 
Rock ” in the now great State of Kansas — perhaps some of 
them have ridden by this once celebrated battle-ground of 
the “ Pawnees,” on their way to the mountains over the Atch- 
ison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad. If they have, this story 
of how it got its name will be doubly interesting. 

“Pawnee Rock” is located only a few miles from the 
thriving little town of Larned, and is a classic spot in the 
Indian history of the “Great Plains.” Its rugged mass of 
brown sandstone throws a deep shadow almost immediately 
over the broad trail that for hundreds of years was the high- 
way of all the “Prairie Tribes” on their periodical hunts to 
the feeding grounds, of the buffalo — southward, across the 
Canadian, and to the north, far beyond the Platte. Under the 
gloom, too, of its craggy and rough-hewn face — not a hun- 
dred yards away — that great international roadway, now a 
mere memory, the “Santa Fe Trail” passed. 


2 


STORIES OF THE 


In early Fall, when the “Rock” a is wrapped in the soft 
amber haze — a distinguishing characteristic of the delightful 
“Indian Summer” on the “ Central Plains;” or in the nas- 
cent Spring, when the mirage weaves its mysterious and 
weird- like shape, it looms up in the landscape like a huge 
mountain, and to the inexperienced eye on the prairie, it 
appears as if it were the continuation of a well-defined range. 
But when the frost comes, and the mist is dispelled, and when 
the thin fringe of timber on the Walnut — a few miles away — 
has doffed its emerald mantle, and the grass has grown yellow 
and rusty, then in the golden sunlight of Winter the “ Rock” 
sinks down to its natural proportions, and cuts the clear blue 
of the skies with sharply-marked lines. 

If this giant sentinel of the “Plains” might speak, what 
a story it could tell of the events that have happened on the 
beautiful prairie stretching out for miles at its feet ! All over 
its scarred and weather-beaten front, carved in quaint and 
rude letters, are the names of hundreds who in early days 
made the dangerous and exciting passage of the Santa Fe 
Trail. Some names are roughly chiseled there, too, who 
were not ambitious at the time of a more enduring fame, and 
gave no further thought to their effort than was concentrated 
in the bare idea of relief from the ennui of the moment, 
while their horses and mules were resting, but who will go 
down to history cursed or praised — as viewed from varying 
aspects — long after the storm of centuries shall have obliter- 
ated every mark on this isolated mass of sandstone. Con- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


3 


spicuous among these is that of Robert E. Lee, the famous 
leader of the Confederate armies, who, in 1843, crossed into 
the borders of Mexico as an officer of the “ Mounted Rifles. ” 
Under the shadow of “Pawnee Rock,” perhaps Coronado, 
the celebrated Spanish explorer, and his little band of faith- 
ful followers rested on their lonely march in search of the 
mythical Quivira. The “Rock” alone is all that remains, 
in all probability, upon which the Spaniards looked, for the 
mighty interval of nearly four hundred years, must have rele- 
gated all else — trees, water courses and the entire landscape, 
that the hardy adventurers looked upon, to the domain of 
vast modification — and this iron-bound hill — whose unsus- 
ceptibility to change is almost as the earth itself — the only 
witness of their famous march. 

During the half century included between the years 
1823-73 — which latter date marked the advent of the railroad 
in this portion of Kansas — “ Pawnee Rock” was considered 
the most dangerous place on all the “Central Plains” for 
encounters with the Indians, as at this particular point on 
the “Trail” the Pawnees, Kiowas, Comanches, Arrapahoes 
and Cheyennes made their not infrequent successful raids 
upon the pack and wagon trains of the freighters across the 
continent. I well remember, in the earlier geographies, that 
most exciting and sensational of all the illustrations — to my 
boyish mind at least — which depicted the “ Santa Fe traders 
attacked by Indians ; ” but that was long ago, and such scenes 
have passed away forever. 


4 


STORIES OF THE 


In those primitive days of the “ Border,” “ Kit Carson/’ 
“ Lucien B. Maxwell,” “Old John Smith,” the Bents and 
the Boones, with other famous frontiersmen, commenced 
their eventful lives in the “Far West” — mere boys then — 
but whose exploits have since made for them a world-wide 
reputation. “Kit Carson,” “Maxwell,” “Smith” and the 
Bents are dead — died with harness on, and on the confines of 
that civilization which is rapidly closing up the gap at the foot 
of the mountains, amidst which there would soon have been 
nothing congenial — so they passed away while there still 
remained fresh prairies and quiet streams. 

“ Kit,” one of the most noble men it has been my for- 
tune to know, is sleeping peacefully under the gnarled old 
Cottonwoods at Fort Lyon, on the Arkansas — that river he 
loved so well — every foot of whose silent margin could tell a 
story of his daring. It was at “ Pawnee Rock,” many, many 
years ago, that “Kit,” then a mere boy, had his first experi- 
ence with the Indians, and it was because of this fight the 
“ Rock” received its name. 

In those days the “ Pawnees” were the most formidable 
tribe on the “Eastern Plains,” and the freighters and trap- 
pers rarely escaped a skirmish with them either at the cross- 
ing of the “Walnut,” “Pawnee Fork,” or at “Little” or 
“Big” Coon creeks. To-day the historic hill looks down 
only upon peaceful homes and fruitful fields— where for hun- 
dreds of years it could tell of nothing but battle and death ; 
where almost every yard of the brown sod at its base covered 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


5 


a grave ; where there was nothing but shadow, now all is 
sunlight. In place of the horrid yell of the savage, as he 
wrenched the reeking scalp from his vanquished victim, the 
whistle of the locomotive and the pleasing whirr of the reap- 
ing machine is heard ; where the death-cry of the painted 
warrior rang mournfully over the silent prairie, the waving 
grain is singing in beautiful rhythm as it bows to the summer 
breeze. Almost every day in the opening Spring, or before 
the grain-planting in the early fall, for several years during 
the first settlement of the country, m the vicinity of “ Pawnee 
Rock,” the skeletons of those killed there in the long years 
gone by — sometimes the bones of the white man, sometimes 
the bones of the red man— were plowed up ; and even now, 
where new fields are opened, the “Rock” thus gradually 
unfolds the sphinx-like secrets of its dead. But of the fight 
from which “Pawnee Rock” took its name, and Carson’s 
part in it : 

It was late in the spring of 1833 — “Kit” was then a 
mere boy, only seventeen years old, and as green as any boy 
of his age who has never been forty miles away from the 
place where he was born. Colonel Saint Vrain, a prominent 
agent of one of the great fur companies of that period, was 
fitting out an expedition at Ft. Osage, destined for the far 
off Rocky Mountains after the skins of the buffalo, beaver, 
otter, mink and other valuable fur-bearing animals that then 
roamed in immense numbers on the plains, or inhabited the 


6 


STORIES OF THE 


hills at their western terminus, and to trade with the various 
tribes of Indians on the borders of Mexico. 

This expedition young “Kit” joined, which was com- 
posed of twenty-six mule wagons, some loose stock and 
forty -two men. “Kit” was hired to help drive the extra 
animals, stand guard and make himself generally useful, which 
of course included fighting the Indians if any were met with 
on the route. The party left the fort one bright morning in 
May in excellent spirits, and in a few hours turned abruptly to 
the west on the broad trail to the mountains. The “ Great 
Plains ” in those years were solitary and desolate beyond the 
power of description ; the Arkansas obeyed the tortuous 
windings of its treeless banks with a placidness that was 
awful in its very silence, and who followed the wanderings of 
that stream with no companion but his own thoughts realized 
in all its intensity the depth of that solitude which Crusoe 
suffered on his lonely island. Illimitable as the ocean, the 
weary waste stretched away until lost in the purple of the 
horizon, and the mirage created weird landcapes, and pictur- 
ed distances that continually deceived and annoyed; but 
despite its loneliness, there was then, and ever has been, for 
most men, an infatuation and love for those majestic and 
inter-continental prairies that once experienced is never lost — 
and thus it came to the boyish heart of “Kit,” so he never 
left them but with his life, and full of years. 

There was not much change then, to the eternal same- 
ness of things during the first two weeks, as the little expedi- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


7 


tion moved day after day through the wilderness of grass — 
its ever rattling wheels only intensifying the world of monot- 
ony surrounding. Occasionally, however, a herd of buffaloes 
were discovered in the dim distance, their brown shaggy sides 
contrasting strangly with the never ending sea of verdure 
around them; then “Kit” and two or three others of the 
party who were detailed to supply the teamsters and packers 
with fresh meat, would ride out after them on the best of the 
extra horses, which were always kept saddled and tied together 
behind the last wagon for services of this character. The 
buffalo quietly watched their coming until they were within a 
few hundred yards, and then giving three or four sniffs, with 
head raised, commenced their short, quick lope toward the 
bluffs; but “Kit” who was already an excellent horseman 
and a splendid shot with the rifle would soon overtake them, 
and topple one after another of their huge carcasses over on 
the prairi^ until a dozen or more were lying dead. The juicy 
humps, tongues and other choice portions were then cut off, 
put in a wagon which had by that time reached them from the 
train, and the expedition moved on. 

So they marched on day after day for about three weeks 
when they arrived at the crossing of Walnut creek, where 
they saw the first sign of the Indian. They had halted for 
the day, the mules were unharnessed, the camp-fires lighted 
and the men about to indulge in their ever refreshing coffee, 
when suddenly half a dozen Pawnees, mounted on their 
ponies, hideously painted and uttering the most demoniacal 


8 


STORIES OF THE 


yells rushed out of the tall grass on the river bottom — where 
they had been hiding — and swinging their blankets and robes 
attempted to stampede the herd, but the whole party were on 
their feet in a moment with rifle in hand ; so all the Indians 
got for their pains were a few well deserved shots as they 
scampered back to the river and over into the sand-hills, and 
were soon out of sight. 

The next night they camped at “ Pawnee Rock,” and of 
course after the experience of the evening before, every pre- 
caution was employed to prevent a surprise; the wagons 
were formed into a corral, so that the animals might be 
secured in the event of a prolonged fight; the guards were 
drilled, and every man slept with his rifle for a bed-fellow, 
for it was well known that the Indians would never rest satis- 
fied with their defeat on the Walnut, but true to their 
thieving propensities and love of revenge would seize the first 
favorable opportunity to renew the attack. 

“Kit” was posted immediately in front of the south 
face of the “Rock,” nearly two hundred yards from the cor- 
ral, and the others, who were on duty, at prominent points 
on top, and on the open prairie either side. About half past 
ii o’clock some of the guard gave the alarm, “Indians!” 
and ran the mules into the corral, while the whole company 
turned at the report of a rifle on the midnight air, coming 
from the direction of the “Rock.” In a few moments 
“Kit” came runing in to where the men had gathered and 
the colonel asked him if he had seen any Indians. “Yes,” 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


9 


he replied, “I killed one of the red devils — I saw him fall.” 
There was no further disturbance, it proved to be a false 
alarm; so the men were soon quietly sleeping, and “Kit” 
returned to his post. The next morning of course all were 
anxious to see “ Kit’s” dead Indian, and went out en masse 
to the “Rock,” where, instead of finding a painted “Paw- 
nee,” they found “Kit’s” mule — dead, shot through the 
head. 

“Kit” felt terribly mortified over his ridiculous blunder, 
and it was a long time before he heard the last of his night 
raid on the mule; but he always liked to tell “the balance of 
the story,” as he termed it, himself, and here is his version.: 
“ I did not sleep any the night before — I watched all the time 
to get a shot at the Pawnees that had tried to stampede our 
animals, and I suppose I felt a little sleepy leaning against 
those rocks — at any rate I was wide awake enough to hear 
the cry of ‘ Indian.’ I had picketed my mule about twenty 
steps from where I stood, and I presume he had been lying 
down; all I know is that the first thing I saw after the 
alarm, was something rising up out of the grass, which I 
thought was an Indian— it was a center shot, I don’t believe 
the mule ever kicked after he was hit.” 

The next morning the Pawnees attacked them in earnest, 
and kept the little command busy all that day, the next night, 
and until the midnight following— nearly three whole days— 
the mules all the time shut up in the corral without food or 
water. At midnight they hitched up and attempted to drive 


10 


STORIES OF THE 


over the crossing of “ Pawnee Fork” (where Larned is now 
situated). The trail at that point crossed the creek in the 
shape of a horse shoe — or, rather, in consequence of the 
double bend of the stream as it empties into the Arkansas, 
the road crossed it twice; in making this crooked passage 
many of the wagons were badly mashed up in the creek be- 
cause the mules were thirsty and their drivers could not control 
them. The train was hardly strung out on the opposite bank 
when the Indians poured in a volley from both sides of the 
trail, but before they could reload and fire again, a charge 
was made among them headed by the Old Colonel, and it 
took only a few moments to “ clean the Indians out” and the 
train moved on. 

During the whole fight the little party lost four men killed, 
seven wounded, and eleven mules killed — not counting 
“ Kit's ” — and twenty wounded. 

From this fight Pawnee Rock took its name, and it was 
there that “Kit: Carson” had his first encounter with the 
Indians. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


THE MARCH OF FRANCISCO VASQUEZ DE CORO- 
NADO, 

IN SEARCH OF THE SEVEN CITIES OF CIBOLA AND THE KINGDOM 
OF QUIVIRA. 

“In the half forgotten era, 

With the avarice of old, 

Seeking cities that were told 
To be paved with solid gold, 

In the kingdom of Quivira — 

“Came the restless Coronado 
To the open Kansas plain ; 

With his knights from sunny Spain, 

In an effort that, though vain, 

Thrilled with boldness and bravado.” 
****** Eugene Ware. 

Many of our people are not aware, perhaps, that nearly 
three hundred and fifty years ago, or only forty-eight years 
after the discovery of America by Columbus, a large portion 
of Kansas was explored by the Spaniards. When we take 
into consideration the condition of the world at that period, 
and all the circumstances that surrounded the search of 
Coronado — which is the subject of this sketch — his journey 
into the then terra incognita of the central plains, stands as 
one of the grandest exploits recorded on the pages of history. 

It appears that in the year 1530, during the time that 


12 


STORIES OF THE 


Nuno de Guzman was President of “New Spain,” as all that 
territory acquired by the conquest of Cortez was then called, 
a slave of that high dignitary told his master some marvelous 
tales of a country far away in the north where were to be 
found cities and towns, so large and grand in their appoint- 
ments that they rivaled even the splendor and wealth of 
Mexico, the capital of New Spain. This slave described in 
particular seven cities, whose streets were filled with shops, 
in which the workmen wrought in silver and gold exclusively ; 
that these famous “seven cities” were located far beyond a 
great desert, through which it would require forty days to 
march. De Guzman, credulous as were all the Spaniards in 
those days, and ready to believe all the wonderful stories of 
the riches of the country they had come so far to conquer, 
immediately commenced the organization of a large force to 
discover the famous cities so minutely described by his slave. 
It is said that this expedition was composed of four hundred 
Spaniards and nearly twenty thousand Indians. * 

The President commanded this rather formidable army 
in person, or at least until he reached Culiacan, for there his 
energy failed him, and he contented himself with simply es- 
tablishing a colony. His excuse for relinquishing the search 
for the seven cities, was the “ terrible and apparently inter- 
minable mountains over which he had to cross.” Shortly 
after his abandonment of the expedition, his slave, who had 

* There are many conflicting accounts of the number which composed this 
army and the above may be taken as within the limits of probability. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


13 


been the principal guide on the march as well, died, and with 
him perished for a while the story of the famous “ Seven 
Cities,” whose people were reveling in gold and silver. 

Eight years afterward — in 1538 — there came to the City 
of Mexico three Spaniards and an Arabian negro called Es- 
tivanico (Stephen). These three Spaniards, Alvar Nunez 
Cabega de Vaca, Andres Dorantes, Alonzo del Castillo Mal- 
donado, and the negro, were the only survivors of the expe- 
dition of Pamphilo de Narvaez, about which I interpolate 
here a short extract from its history, as given by the early 
writers; not that it bears any direct relation to the “ March 
of Coronado,” but on account of the extraordinary adven- 
tures of these men. 

They were part of a company who, with Pamphilo de 
Narvaez, sailed from the West Indies in the spring of 1528 to 
explore the country of Florida, of which the commander of 
the expedition, Pamphilo, had been made Governor. Parri- 
philo’s command consisted of four hundred men and eighty 
horses. About the first of April he arrived in the harbor of 
Santa Cruz (now Tampa Bay), and early in May, with his 
little command, forty only of whom now were mounted, 
started for the interior of Florida. He marched constantly 
toward the North, keeping the coast in sight, and on the 
twenty-sixth of June reached the Indian village named Apu- 
luche. Here he remained nearly a month, and then resumed 
his journey for more than a week, when he arrived at another 
village called Aute. He made a short halt at this place and 


14 


STORIES OF THE 


then turned abruptly to the West. Marching in that direction 
for nearly a fortnight, his men became disheartened and dis- 
pirited in not finding any of the precious metals, and receiv- 
ing nothing but insults and bad treatment from the Indians, 
the command retraced its steps to Aute, where, failing to 
glean any knowledge of the ships which had been ordered to 
follow them up the coast; they built five boats, in which all 
the party (who had not died or been killed by the Indians), 
now reduced to less than three hundred, sailed along the con- 
tour of the shore. In a few days they discovered the mouth 
of a swift running river, whose current was so strong they 
could make no headway against it, and their frail vessels were 
carried out into the Gulf. 

About a week or ten days after their embarkation, while 
making slow journey toward the West, Cabega de Vaca, in 
command of one of the boats, was wrecked on an island, 
which they immediately named Mulhado (misfortune). , A 
few days after this mishap, all the remainder of the little fleet 
were capsized during a terrible storm off Mulhado, except 
that of Pamphilo, which drifted out to sea and was never 
heard from. All those who were not lost in this storm lived 
on the Island of Mulhado for more than six years, and were 
made slaves by the Indians, who treated them with the greatest 
cruelty. In consequence of the inhuman bearing of the sav- 
ages toward them, and from starvation, most of the unfor- 
tunate Spaniards died. 

After a weary and horrible six years of captivity, four of 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


15 


them, (those men previously mentioned, and probably the only 
survivors of the whole party that were saved from the wrecks), 
escaped from the island and marched to the North, as far as 
the mountains of Alabama, from thence turned toward the 
setting sun and reached the Mississippi river — “the great 
river coming from the North” — as Cabe^a called it. They 
continued on in a westerly direction, crossing the Arkansas 
and the Canadian at the great canon of the latter river, from 
which point they turned to the southwest and passed through 
what is now New Mexico and Arizona to Culiacan, which 
province Guzman had already settled. 

Upon reaching Culiacan, these remarkable men were 
full of strange stories and adventures, all of which were told 
to the Viceroy, then Don Antonio de Mendoca. 

They stated to the Viceroy that the natives in some por- 
tions of the country through which they passed on their peril- 
ous journey, told them of rich and powerful cities, with houses 
four and five stories high, and that they were situated in the 
North. 

'Don Antonia de Mendoca communicated the strange 
stories and wonderful adventures of the newly arrived Span- 
iards to Francisco Vasquez de Coronado, the new governor, 
who immediately set out in person for Culiacan, and took 
with him three Franciscan friars, among whom was Marcos 
de Nica, a celebrated man in learning. 

As soon as Coronado reached Culiacan, which journey 
he made with all possible haste, he ordered the three monks 


16 


STORIES OF THE 


and the negro, Estevanico, to proceed on a voyage of dis- 
covery, and learn all they could in relation to the “ seven 
cities,” the story of which was now fully revived, eight years 
after the death of the Indian who had first mentioned their 
existence to the President de Guzman. 

The three Spaniards left on their perilous mission in obe- 
dience to the order of the governor, but the negro, Stephen, 
becoming distasteful to them from some cause, they com- 
pelled him to go in advance to pacify the natives of the coun- 
try through which he had passed on the memorable journey 
from the coast with Cabe^a. It is related that as soon as 
Stephen reached the region of the “ Seven Cities of Cibola” 
he made a demand of their people, not only for their wealth, 
but their women. In answer to this iniquitous demand the 
Indians killed him, and sent back some of the party that had 
come with him. These latter, the number not definitely 
known, frightened and demoralized at what they had seen, 
“ went flying to their homes,” but met the three friars in the 
desert some sixty leagues from Cibola. When the monks 
learned of the death of Stephen they became greatly frightened, 
and even distrusting the Indians who had gone out with Ste- 
phen, they made them presents of everything they had with 
them, excepting only the paraphernalia used in celebrating 
the mass, turned about, and by forced marches went back to 
Culiacan, knowing no more of the country than when they 
had set out, except what had been told them by the Indians. 

When they reached Culiacan, they were immediately ad- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


17 


mitted to an audience with Coronado, to whom they gave a 
rose colored tale of their own adventures; what Stephen had 
said, and also what the Indians had told them. They, also 
told Coronado of “ islands filled with treasure, which, they 
were assured, existed in the ‘ Southern sea.’ ” 

Coronado, after listening with enthusiastic delight to 
their marvelous tales, resolved to set out immediately for the 
city of Mexico to confer with the Viceroy, and took with him 
Friar Marcos de Ni$a, that the latter might tell in his own 
glowing language to the Viceroy in person all that had been 
told him. 

Coronado must have been exceedingly credulous, and 
swallowed with avidity all the strange things he had heard, 
for he gathered a few of his most intimate friends, and to 
them alone disclosed what the old Friar had reported. He 
added to the story himself greatly, and exacted the strictest 
secrecy in relation to the wealth of the alleged famous ‘‘Seven 
Cities.” 

He arrived in Mexico in due season, and immediately 
closeted himself with the Viceroy, to whom he related the 
wonderful stories he had learned from Marcos de Nica and 
the others of his party. Coronado then proclaimed 
throughout that region that he had discovered the “Seven 
Cities of Cibola,” and began to organize an expedition for 
their conquest. 

Meanwhile Friar Marcos had been elevated through the 
influence of the church to the dignity of “ Provincial of the 


18 


STORIES OF THE 


Franciscans” and their religious services were filled with 
the stories of the wonderful discoveries, which created such 
an enthusiasm, and coming from such a source, the infal- 
lible church, that volunteers offered their services in crowds, 
to the number, it is stated, of three hundred Spaniards and 
eight hundred Indians, all eager to march at once in quest of 
the famous “Seven Cities of Cibola.” The majority of the 
Spaniards were of noble birth, and they met immediately 
and proclaimed Francisco Vasquez de Coronado, captain, in 
honor of the fact that he was the discoverer of the “Seven 
Cities,” the objective point of the expedition. 

The Viceroy Mendoca aided to the extent of the power, 
in preparing the little company for their hazardous enter- 
prise, and appointed Compostella, a town some three hun- 
dred miles from Mexico, as the place of rendezvous, and the 
time, Shrove Tuesday. After this expedition had left^the 
capital city, the Viceroy ordered Don Pedro d’Alargon to 
leave for La Nativadad, a village "'on the coast, and in com- 
mand of two'small ships to proceed to Jalisco for the remain- 
der of the supplies belonging to the expedition which the 
troops could not carry. The ships were then to follow the 
coast and keep pace with the army of Coronado, which it 
was thought from’, the received accounts of the direction it 
was to take, would always be along the sea. When all these 
preliminaries had been effected, the Viceroy departed for 
Compostella with a Jarge~retinue of noblemen, intending to 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


19 


review the army of Coronado in person, and give them such 
encouragement as his presence would naturally inspire. 

This right royal cavalcade, with the Viceroy at its head, 
was received all along the route with the most distinguished 
consideration, and accorded that obsequious flattery which 
always bends to rank and station even in this age, in mo- 
narchical countries. When he arrived at Compostella he 
became the guest of Christoral de Onale, captain general of 
that province, and the next morning reviewed the troops 
comprising Coronado’s little army, and after the celebration 
of the mass before the entire company made them a spirited 
address. After the Viceroy had pictured the wonderful 
results to be gained by this expedition, not only to themselves 
as individuals, in a pecuniary point of view, but to the re- 
nown and splendor of the Spanish throne, he requsted every- 
one to swear on a missal containing the Holy Evangelists, 
never to abandon their commander, no matter what might 
befall, and to implicitly obey all orders, and under all cir- 
cumstances. 

Early the next morning, with all the pomp and etiquette 
of royalty, Coronado gave the orders to move forward ; 
seated on a magnificent stallion whose trappings were orna- 
mented with gold and silver and emblazoned with symbols of 
the Spanish throne, he led his little army, which stepped proud- 
ly and confidently to the command of their general, toward 
the north. The Viceroy, accompanied by his retinue of gen- 
erals and nobles, escorted the expedition as a mark of honor 


20 


STORIES OF THE 


and encouragement, for two whole days, and then reluc- 
tantly retraced his steps to the capital. Almost immediately 
Coronado’s army began to feel the effects of marching 
through a wild and unknown country ; they were compelled 
to pack their baggage on the backs of their horses, and as 
this was a new experience it amounted to almost a complete 
failure. In wearily plodding over the ragged spurs and 
sharp ridges of the interminable ranges which they were 
obliged to cross, the animals would loose their foothold, and 
the packs, unskillfully tied on, lurching a little, would fre- 
quently throw its weight toward the side of the precipice, 
and down both horse and baggage would roll, for a thousand 
feet, perhaps, into the dark and rocky canon below. It was 
no child’s play, and each man of the little army, nobleman 
and common soldiers alike, took their turn in guiding the 
horses over the sinuous passage among the rocks and beet- 
ling cliffs. At last after a painful journey the expedition 
reached Chiametta, where it met Melchor Diaz and Juan de 
Saldibar, captains in the Spanish army, and a handful of 
determined soldiers, who had by a previous order of Coronado 
explored the country in advance of the main command as 
far as Chichilicese, on the edge of Friar Marco’s ‘‘Desert” 
and some eight or nine hundred miles from Culiacan.* 

Halting at Chiametta, to hear what report the Spanish 
captains, Diaz and Saldibar had to make in relation to their 

*This distance is made up of estimates by myself, but all accounts of measure- 
ments in the narrative must be taken cum grano salts, as it is impossible in conse- 
quence of the incompleteness of the old maps to approximate correctness. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


21 


journeys, the soldiers and Indians of the command seized 
this opportunity of rest to fish, and to listen to the stories 
of their comrades around the camp-fires. 

The next day after a secret interview between Coronado 
and the two captains, it was bruited among the rank and file 
that the account given of the country in the region of the 
“ Desert, ” and the prospect from the top of the hills into 
that 4 ‘Great Plain ” was of the “ most uncheerful and mel- 
ancholy character,” in consequence of which the troops 
became dispirited, and an atmosphere of discouragement 
settled upon the brave little band. We should not disparage 
this fact, however, for we must not entertain the idea for a 
moment, that anything like cowardice entered as a factor in 
the elements which made up the character of these men ; we 
should rather remember that we are looking back through the 
dim vista of nearly four hundred years, and that not only the 
limited region which the love of conquest and spirit of adven- 
ture tempted them to enter, was an unknown country — but 
that the whole continent of America was an unexplored terri- 
tory — a veritable terra incognita in fact — and it required a de- 
termination and energy, which even the boasted prowess of 
the nineteenth century might honorably shrink from. It was 
no wonder then, that this little band of Spaniards lost heart 
when the dismal and melancholy interview between the gene- 
ral and the captains — who had returned sick and desponding 
from their reconnoisance — spread through the camp. 

But Friar de Ni^a disputed with Diaz and Saldibar; he 


22 


STORIES OF THE 


accused them of lying, and waxed wroth toward them in his 
harangues to the soldiers as they listened to him with that pa- 
tience and attention due his exalted position in the Church. 
The Friar told them as they gathered around their camp-fires, 
that the country was fertile and abounded in precious metals ; 
that they should not return without full reward for all their 
hardships, and that the world would yet ring with the story of 
their achievements. 

The wily Friar thus under cover of his priestly garb re- 
stored them to a condition of obedience, and persuaded them 
by his elegant word-pictures — for history shows that he was 
an eloquent rascal — to continue their march in search of the 
“ Seven Cities,” which, he assured them had a veritable exist- 
ence; this was on Easter Sunday, 1540, and on the next day 
the now freshly exhilarated little army took up its line of march 
forCuliacan. When they reached Culiacan the citizens turned 
out en masse to receive them, and showered upon Coronado a 
profusion of presents, to his followers they gave an abundance 
of fruits and supplies, and furnished them with everything 
necessary to continue their perilous journey into the “ Des- 
ert.” 

Culiacan — where years before Nuna de Guzman estab- 
lished his colony — some seven hundred miles from Mexico — 
was the last place on the march inhabited by their own peo- 
ple, and the command remained here more than a fortnight 
to recuperate their worn-out horses, and make their last prep- 
arations for comfort, for from this point on there was no hope 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


23 


of succor, except what might possibly come from the natives, 
and these they knew nothing about, save from such tales as 
had been told them — the details of which, to say the least — 
were not by any means flattering, or held out much promise. 

At the end of their somewhat protracted halt at Culia- 
can, Coronado made a new disposition of his forces, and devi- 
ated somewhat from his original programme. Taking fifty of his 
noblemen — his special personal friends — a portion of the foot- 
soldiers and all the monks, he left Culiacan after ordering the 
remainder of his army to wait until he had been gone a fort- 
night and then follow on his trail. Castenada, his historian, 
says : “When the General had passed through all the inhab- 
ited region to Chichilticale, where the desert begins, and saw 
that there was nothing good, he could not repress his sadness, 
notwithstanding the marvels that were promised further on. 
No one save the Indians who had accompanied the negro had 
seen them, and already they had been caught in lies. He 
was especially afflicted to find the Chichilticale, of which so 
much had been boasted, to be a single, ruined and roofless 
house, which at one time seemed to have been fortified. It 
was easy to see that this house, which was built of red earth, 
was the work of civilized people who had come from afar. 
On quitting this place they entered the desert. At the end 
of fifteen days they came within eight leagues of Cibola, on 
the banks of a river they called the Vermijo, on account of 
its red and troubled waters. Mullets, resembling those of 
Spain were found in it. It was there that the first Indians of 


24 


STORIES OF THE 


the country were discovered ; but when they saw the Span- 
iards they fled and gave the alarm. During the night of the 
succeeding day, when not more than two leagues from the 
village, some Indians who were concealed, suddenly uttered 
such piercing cries (the war-whoop?) that our soldiers became 
alarmed, notwithstanding, they pretended not to regard it as 
a surprise ; and there were even some who saddled their hor- 
ses the wrong way, but these were men who belonged to the 
new levies. The best warriors mounted their horses and scoured 
the country. The Indians who knew the land escaped easily 
and not one of them was taken. On the following day in 
good order we entered the inhabited country. 

Cibola was the first village we discovered ; on beholding 
it the army broke forth with maledictions on Friar Marcos de 
Ni$a. God grant that he may feel none of them. Cibola is 
built on a rock ; this village is so small that in truth there are 
many farmers in New Spain that make a better appearance. 
It may contain two hundred warriors. The houses are built 
in three or four stories ; they are small, not spacious, and have 
courts, as a single court serves for a whole quarter — the inhab- 
itants of the province were united there. It is composed of 
seven towns, some which are larger and better fortified than 
Cibola. These Indians, ranged in good order, awaited us at 
some distance from the village. They were very loth to ac- 
cept peace, and when they were required so to do by our 
interpreters, they menaced us by gestures ; shouting our war- 
cry of Saint Iago, we charged upon them and quickly caused 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


25 


them to fly- Nevertheless it was necessary to get possession 
of Cibola, which was no easy achievement, for the road lead- 
ing to it was both narrow and winding. The general was 
knocked down by the blow of a stone as he mounted in the 
assault, and he would have been slain, had it not been for 
Garci Lopez de Cardenas and Hernando d’ Alvarado who 
threw themselves before him, and received the blows of 
the stones, which were designed for him and fell in large num- 
bers ; nevertheless as it is impossible to resist the first impet- 
uous charge of Spaniards, the village was gained in less than 
an hour. It was found filled with provisions which were 
much needed, and in a short time the whole province was forc- 
ed to accept peace.” Coronado, as a good soldier should, 
immediately made his little command comfortable, and the 
strange and novel scenes among the natives sufficed to recon- 
cile the troops for a while to the intense disappointment they 
had suffered, but a spirit of discontent and of desire for fur- 
ther exploration, inherent in the Spanish in those days, de- 
manded constant work to keep them at all content. 

Coronado, to control the element of discontent that again 
brooded over his command, organized little reconnoisances 
from his stronghold, into the neighboring districts, and hear- 
ing from one of his conquered Indians that there were seven 
other cities like those of Cibola, he ordered seventeen ofhis cav- 
aliers and a few of the infantry under command of Don Pedro 
de Tobar, to search for them. A Franciscan monk, Friar 
Juan de Pudilla, who had once been a soldier himself, accom- 


26 


STORIES OF THE 


panied Don Pedro. In relation to this expedition of De 
Tobar’s to this second group of “Seven Cities,” the histo- 
rian says: “The rumor had spread among their inhabitants 
that Cibola was captured by a very ferocious race of peo- 
ple, who bestrode horses that devoured men, and as they 
knew nothing of horses, this information filled them with the 
greatest astonishment. But notwithstanding all this, Don 
Pedro met with some show of resistance, and was obliged to 
make a series of charges among the infuriated savages, killing 
large numbers of them before he was permitted to take peace- 
able possession of the towns. When he had sufficiently 
overawed them by the powers of the Spanish armies — the ter- 
rible appearance of the horses, had as much to do with it as any- 
thing else — the savages hurried to their houses and begged 
him not to destroy them. They brought out presents of 
woven goods, fruits, corn, fowls, and a few precious stones 
as peace-offerings, which the Spaniards accepted, and began 
to question them of the country and its resources. They 
learned from these Indians, of a great river, on whose banks 
lived people who were immensely tall, and had dwellings 
much greater in all their proportions than the ones which they 
now looked on. With this information, Don Pedro returned 
to Cibola and imparted the information he had gathered to 
Coronado. Coronado immediately upon receipt of this in- 
telligence, dispatched Don Garcie Lopez de Cardenas with a 
dozen men to explore the wonderful river spoken of by the 
Indians to Don Pedro. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


27 


De Cardenas apparently marched to the “seven cities” 
conquered where he was furnished with supplies by the na- 
tives, and from whom he evidently received further and 
correct information in relation to the “River.” 

Leaving the last mentioned towns, they wandered for 
nearly a month through a desert and reached a stream whose 
banks were so steep that, as the historian relates it, “they 
thought themselves elevated three or four leagues in the air.” 
The adventurous little band marched for some days along the 
bank of the strange river, hoping to find some point at which 
they could descend to the water, which to them appeared 
only a few feet wide, but which in reality was a mile and a 
half, according to the declarations of the Indians. 

At last after much weary and fruitless wandering, they 
reached a place where descent seemed practicable, and Mel- 
gosa Juan Galeras, and a private, who were the smallest men 
in the expedition, determined to make the attempt. They 
clambered down among the jagged points of rock until those 
above on the edge of the preeipice could no longer see them. 

Late in the afternoon the two venturesome men came 
back by the same path and reported their attempt a failure. 
They could not reach the water’s edge, for what appeared 
above as small shelves of rock, were really huge masses with 
perpendicular walls sixty and a hundred feet high. 

They only reached about one third of the distance, and 
from there the stream looked wide and confirmed the story 
of the Indians in relation to it. They assured their comrades 


28 


STORIES OF THE 


that some of the rocks which from the top of the bank ap- 
peared no taller than a man, were in truth, higher and loftier 
than the tower of the Cathedral of Seville.* 

Castenado says: “The river was the Tizon. A spot 
was reached much nearer its source, and that the Spaniards 
retraced their steps to Cibola, and this expedition had no 
other result. On their march back, they came to a water- 
fall with crystals of salt, large quantities of which they 
broke off and carried to Cibola. 

During the absence of De Cardenas to the Great Canon 
of the Tizon (Colorado River) some Indians whose homes 
were far to the east, arrived at Cibola. They called their coun- 
try Cicuye, and were ruled over by a chief whose name was 
Bigotes, in consequence of his wearing huge mustaches. 
Bigotes came to Cibola with his subjects to offer his and their 
services to the Spaniards, of whom they had heard remarka- 
ble stories way off in their own province. 

These Indians brought with them as presents to Corona- 
do, skins, shields, and other articles, and in exchange for 
this courtesy, Coronado made them presents of necklaces of 
glass beads, and bells, and as the Indians had never seen such 
things before were much pleased as well as astonished. 

One of the Indians told them of cows and showed the 
picture of one painted on his body. 

♦This was the Great Canon of the Colorado, where for hundreds of miles the 
cut edges of the table land rise abruptly, often perpendicularly, from the water’s 
edge, forming walls from three to six thousand feet high. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


29 


Castenado says: “We would never have guessed it 
from seeing the skins of these animals, for they are covered 
with a frizzled hair which resembles wool.”* 

Coronado listened with marked attention to the story of 
Bigotes and Jris men, and called a council of his Cavaliers to 
listen and project another expedition to that region. 

He appointed Captain Hernado d’ Alvarado to the com- 
mand with twenty men, and ordered them to go with the 
Indians, but to return in eighty days and make a report of 
what he might discover. 

Alvarado made his preparations in a short time, and 
with his gallant little party, and Indians as guides, started on 
his enigmatical mission. 

Castenado thus relates the march: “Five days after, 
they arrived at a village named Acuco, built on a rock. The 
inhabitants who are able to send about two hundred warriors 
into the field, are the most formidable brigands in the prov- 
ince. This village was very strongly posted, inasmuch as it 
was only reached by one path, and was built upon a rock pre- 
cipitous on all its other sides, and at such a height that the 
ball from an arquebuse could scarcely reach its summit. It 
was entered by a strairway cut out by the hand of man, which 

*This was the first idea the Spaniards received of the Buffalo, but they always 
speak of them as Vacas (Cows) as we shall see further on in our sketch when Cor- 
onado and his command reach the true Buffalo country — that is the Great Plains of 
Kansas. 


30 


STORIES OF THE 


began at the bottom of the declivitous rock, and led up to the 
village. ” 

“The stairway was of suitable width for the first two 
hundred steps, but after these, were a hundred more much 
narrower, and when the top was finally to be reached, it was 
necessary to scramble up the three last toises by placing the 
feet in holes scraped in the rock, and as the ascender could 
scarcely make the point of his toe enter them, he was forced 
to cling to the precipice with his hands.” 

“ On the summit there was a great arsenal of huge stones, 
which the defenders, without exposing themselves could roll 
down on their assailants, so that no army, no matter what its 
strength might be, could force this passage. There was on 
the top a sufficient space of ground to cultivate and store a 
large supply of corn, as well as cisterns to contain water and 
snow.” 

At this place the Indians were at first disposed to be 
hostile as they saw the Spaniards approach, and told them not 
to pass over a certain line they had marked on the ground, 
but as the latter paid no attention to the dictation and made 
preparations for battle, the Indians’ bravado soon oozed out, 
and they brought presents of skins, nuts, flour and corn, and 
laid them at Alvarado’s feet. 

After resting at this village for a short time, and replen- 
ishing his little commissary with the best offerings of the In- 
dians, Alvarado journeyed on, and in three days more reach- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


31 


ed another town called Tigeux whose people knowing Bigotes 
received the Spaniards very graciously. 

Here Alvarado was so much gratified that he dispatched 
a courier back to Coronado, and suggested the propriety of 
the whole command coming to Tiguex and going into winter 
quarters. 

Coronado was delighted when he heard the courier’s re- 
port, and flattering himself that his difficulties were about 
ended, and the prospects brightening, he determined to act 
upon Alvarado’s advice and move to Tiguex. 

Alvarado, as soon as his messenger had departed to 
Cibola with the dispatch for Coronado, continued on his march 
for nearly a week, at the end of which time he came to an- 
other village called Cicuye. Cicuye was very strongly forti- 
fied and the houses four stories in height. Alvarado remained 
here some time to recuperate, and one day while idling 
through the town chanced to come upon “an Indian slave 
who was a native of the country adjacent to Florida.” * 

This slave, who was very communicative, the Spaniards 
nick-named II Turco (the Turk) because he resembled so 
positively that class of people. 

“II Turco” was full of strange stories and adventures, 
to which the credulous Spanish, ready to believe anything, 
listened with the greatest earnestness. 

He said there were great cities, and immense amounts of 

* The name of Florida at that time was applied to all that tract of country 
from Canada to the river Del Norte. 


32 


STORIES OF THE 


gold and silver in his country, and beyond their extensive 
plains, over which roamed herds of cows so numerous that 
they could not be counted. 

Alvarado, upon this, determined to make a journey to 
the buffalo country and take the slave with him as guide. 
He was absent some time, saw a few buffalo and then retraced 
his steps to Tiguex to report to Coronado, whom he supposed 
must have reached there by that time. 

While Alvarado was making this series of little excursions 
from Tiguex, Coronado, who had started from Cibola, heard 
through some friendly Indians of eight other towns, so he 
determined to visit them on his march to Tiguex. 

He selected thirty or forty of his most efficient soldiers, 
and leaving the main command to journey on, he made a 
detour in search of the reported eight cities. It appears that 
in ten or eleven days he found them in a province called 
Tutahaco but they did not compare even with the towns at 
Cibola, those having been built of stone, these of earth only. 
So diappointed, he set out for Tiguex.* 

When Coronado reached Tiguex, he found Alvarado 
already returned from the buffalo country, and was much 
gratified by reports brought him by the Captain and “ II Tur- 
co,” of that region. 

Castenado says : “This Indian (the slave) told Coronado, 
that in his country there was a river two leagues wide, in 
which fish as large as horses were to be found; that there 


* This portion of the journey is too ambiguous and I have severely let it alone. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


33 


were canoes with twenty oarsmen on each side, which were 
also propelled by sails ; that the lords of the land were seated 
in the sterns upon a dais, while a large golden eagle was af- 
fixed to their prows. He added that the Sovereign of this 
region took his siesta beneath a huge tree to whose branches 
golden bells were hung which were rung by the agitation of 
the summer breeze.” 

He declared, morever, “ that the commonest vessels were 
of sculptured silver ; that the bowls, plates and dishes were 
of gold. He called gold acochis. He was believed because 
he spoke with great assurance, and because when some trin- 
kets of copper were shown him, he smelt them and said they 
were not gold. He knew gold and silver well and made no 
account of the other metals.” 

“The General sent Hernando d’ Alvarado to Cicuye to 
reclaim the golden bracelets which the ‘Turk’ pretended to 
have been taken from him when he was made prisoner. 
When Alvarado arrived there the inhabitants received him 
kindly, as they had done before, but they positively affirmed 
that they had no knowledge of the bracelets, and they assured 
him that the Turk was a great liar who deceived him.” 

“Alvarado seeing there was nothing else he could do, 
lured the Chief, Bigotes, and the Cacique under his tent, and 
caused them to be chained. 

“The inhabitants reproached the Captain with being a 
man without faith or friendship, and launched a shower of 
arrows at- him. Alvarado conducted these prisoners to 


34 


STORIES OF THE 


Tiguex, where the general retained them more than six 
months.” 

Let us turn to the main command of Coronado, which 
it will be remembered the General had left to make a detour. 

It was sometime after Coronado had departed before the 
army, agreeably to orders, commenced its march for Tiguex. 
The command devolved upon Don Tristan d’ Arellano, and 
on the first day out they came to the largest village yet seen. 
Here they camped, so well pleased were they with the sur- 
roundings. 

Castenado says of this village: “ There they found 
houses of seven stories, which was seen nowhere else. 
These belonged to private individuals, and served as for- 
tresses. They rose so far above the others that they have the 
appearance of towers. There are embrasures and loop-holes, 
from which lances may be thrown, and the place defended. 
As all these villages have no streets, all the roofs are flat, and 
common for all the inhabitants ; it is therefore necessary to 
take possession, first of all, of these large houses which serve 
as defenses.” 

When the army arrived at Tiguex it was received with 
demonstrations of welcome, and soon, like all soldiers, in 
the rest and good living, forgot all its troubles in getting there. 

But soon the Spaniards through their own foolishness, 
commencing with that of Alvarado, just related, began to 
meet with disaster on every hand. 

The action of Alvarado threw the whole province into 


SANTA FE TRAIL. 


35 


revolt, and the Spaniards after burning one or two small 
villages, and killing many of the inhabitants laid siege to 
Tiguex, which they did not succeed in capturing until after 
fifty days. 

All the villages, one after another submitted, but the 
people left their homes and would not return to them while 
the now — and justly too — hated Spaniards remained in the 
country. 

On the 5th of May, 1541, the earliest date at which the 
Tiguex river (the Rio Grande) was clear of ice, Coronado 
commenced his march for Quivira to look for gold and silver, 
which “II Turco” had told them existed there in such large 
quantities. The army marched by Cicuye, and a few days 
after leaving the latter place they came to a river which was 
wide and swift and crossed a range of mountains near it. 
They called the river the Cicuye, and they were compelled 
to remain in camp on its banks while they built a bridge. In 
about two weeks after leaving this river, Coronado met the 
first genuine Indians of the plains. Their lodges were made 
of tanned cow (buffalo) skins, and they were called querech- 
aos. It was here they saw their first buffalo, and the soldiers 
and cavaliers killed great numbers of them. It seems that 
after getting about nine hundred miles from Tiguex, the army 
finding itself with but little provisions left, Coronado ordered 
Don Tristan d’ Arellano to fall back to Tiguex with the 
whole army, excepting thirty mounted, and six dismounted 


36 


STORIES OF THE 


soldiers, whom Coronado took, and in command of this 
handful of men continued his search for Quivira. 

The historian says : “The guides conducted the general 
to Quivira in forty-eight days, # for they had traveled too much 
in the direction of Florida. At Quivira they found neither gold 
nor silver, and learning from the Turk that he had at the 
instance of the people of Cicuye purposely decoyed the army 
far into the plains to kill the horses, and thus make the men 
helpless, and fall an easy prey to the natives, and that all he 
said about the great quantity of silver and gold to be found 
was false, they strangled him.” 

“The Indians of this region, so far from having large 
quantities of gold and silver, did not know these metals. 
The Cacique wore on his breast a copper plate, of which he 
made a great parade, which he would not have done had he 
known anything about these precious metals.” 

The following quaint description is given of the Great 
Plains over which the exhausted Spaniards wandered after 
the treachery of II Turco, and they were obliged to retrace 
their march to Tiguex half famished.* “From Cicuye they 
went to Quivira, which, after their account is almost three 
hundred leagues distant, through mighty plains, and sandy 
heaths so smooth and wearisome, and bare of wood that they 
made heaps of ox-dung, for want of stones and trees, that 
they might not lose themselves at their return : for three 

* Hakluyt’s Voyages, Vol. III. London 1600. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


37 


horses were lost on that plain, and one Spaniard which went 
from his company on hunting. 

“ All that way of plains are as full of crooked-back oxen, 
as the mountain Serrena in Spain is of sheep, but there is no 
such people as keep those cattle. 

‘‘They were a great succor for the hungry and want of 
bread which our people stood in need of. 

“ One day it rained in that plain a great shower of hail, 
as big as oranges, which caused many tears, weakness and 
bowes. 

“ Quivira is in forty degrees, it is a temperate country, 
and hath very good waters and much grass, plums, mulber- 
ries, nuts, melons and grapes, which ripen very well. 

“There is no cotton, and the natives of that country ap- 
parel themselves with ox-hides and deer skins. 

“ Many of our people sought to have dwelt there, but 
Coronado would not consent, saying they could not maintain, 
nor defend themselves in so poor a country, and so far from 
succor. 

“ They traveled about nine hundred leagues in this coun- 
try. All the way between Cicuye and Quivira is a vast plain 
without trees and stones, and hath but few and small towns. 

“ The men clothe themselves with leather, and the wo- 
men, which are esteemed for their long locks, cover their 
heads with the same. 

“ They have no bread or any kind of grain, as they say, 
which I accounted a very great matter. 

5 


38 


STORIES OF THE 


“ Their chief food is flesh, and that oftentimes they eat 
raw, either of custom or for lack of wood. They eat the 
fat as they take it out of the ox, and drink the blood hot,* and 
do not die withal, though the ancient writers say that it killeth, 
as Empedocles and others affirmed. They drink it also cold 
dissolved in water. 

“ They seethe not the flesh for lack of pots, but roast it, 
or to say more properly, warm it at a fire of ox-dung ; when 
they chaw their meat but little, and raven up much, and hold- 
ing the flesh with their teeth, they cut with razors of stone 
which seemeth to be great bestiality; but such is their man- 
ner of living and fashion. 

“They go together in companies, and move from one 
place to another, as the wild Moores of Barbary called 
Alarbes do, following the seasons and the pastures after 
their oxen. 

“These oxen are of the bigness and color of our bulls, but 
their bones are not so great. They have a great bunch upon 
their fore-shoulder, and more hair on their fore part than on 
their hinder part, and it is like wool. They have as it were 
an horse-mane upon their backbone, and much hair and very 
long from their knees downward. 

“ They have great tufts of hair hanging down their fore- 
heads, and it seemeth they have beards because of the great 
store of hair hanging down at their chins and throats. 

* I have seen the Cheyennes eat the hot and quivering liver and fat torn from 
a freshly killed antelope when on a hunting party. — H. I. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


39 


“ The males have very long tails, and a great knob or 
flock at the end, so that in some respects they resemble the 
lion, and in some other the camel. 

“They push with their horns, they run, they overtake 
and kill an horse when they are in their rage and anger. 

“Finally it is a foul and fierce beast of countenance and 
form of body. 

“ The horses fled from them, either because of their de- 
formed shape, or else because they had never before seen 
them. 

“Their masters have no other riches nor substance; of 
them they eat, they drink, they apparel, they shoe themselves, 
and of their hides they make many things, as houses, shoes, 
and apparel and ropes; of their bones they make bodkins, of 
their sinews and hair, thread; of their horns, mawes and 
bladders, vessels ; of their dung, fire, and of their calves 
skins, budgets, wherein they draw and keep water. To be 
short, they make as many things of them as they have need 
of, or as many as suffice them in the use of this life. 

“There are also in this country other beastes as big as 
horses, which because they have horns and fine wooll they are 
called sheep ; and they say that every home of them weigheth 
fifty pounds weight.* 

“There are also great many dogs which will fight with a 
bull, and will carry fifty pounds weight in sacks when they 

^This “ beaste ” is evidently the “ Big Horn" of the Rocky Mountains, but 
the historian looked upon the animal with exaggerated optics. — H. I. 


40 


STORIES OF THE 


go hunting, or when they remove from place to place with 
their flocks and herds.” 

We will now follow the fortunes of the main army for a 
short time, which, it will be remembered, was sent back to 
Tiguex under Don Tristan d’ Arellano, by the order of Coro- 
nado, on account of the scarcity of provisions. 

The army was guided on its retreat to Tiguex by some 
natives who called themselves Teyans, and who promised to 
take them by a less circuitous route than the one they came. 
The historian thus relates the manner in which these Teyans 
guided the column : “Every morning they watched to note 
where the sun rose, and directed their way by shooting an ar- 
row in advance, and then before reaching this arrow they dis- 
charged another ; in this way they marked the whole of the 
route to the spot where water was to be found, and where they 
encamped. 

“The army consumed only twenty-five days on their 
journey, and even then much time was lost. The first time 
it had taken thirty-seven days.” 

“On the road they passed a great number of salt marshes 
where there was a considerable quantity of salt. Pieces 
longer than tables and four or five inches thick were seen . 
floating on the surface. On the plains they found an im- 
mense number of small animals resembling squirrels, and 
numerous holes burrowed by them in the earth.” 

Arellano arrived at Tiguex in July, 1541, and sent out 


1 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL, . 


41 


another expedition under Captain Francisco de Barrio-Nuevo 
to ascend the river (Rio Grande). 

On their march they found a large village which the in- 
habitants called Braba, but which the Spaniards re-christened 
Valladolid. “It was built on the two banks of the river which 
was crossed by bridges built with nicely squared timber.” 

Still another expedition was sent by Arellano south from 
Tiguex, for about three hundred miles, where they found four 
more villages, and “ reached a place where the river plunged 
beneath the ground ; but, inasmuch as their orders confined 
them to a distance of eighty leagues, they did not push on to 
the place where, according to the Indians’ accounts, this 
stream escapes again from the earth with considerable aug- 
mented volume.” 

Meanwhile, Don Tristan d’Arellano became alarmed for 
the safety of Coronado who should have returned by this 
time according to his express declarations, so the Don set out 
in search of him in person, taking with him forty of his cav- 
aliers. When he reached Cicuye, the Indians rushed out 
and attacked him, in which skirmish he lost some men, and 
was delayed a week. Just as he was ready to move forward 
again, some of the natives, who had just returned from a 
hunting expedition, told him that Coronado was coming, 
and he remained in camp, holding the Indians at bay until 
the general arrived, after which they all went back to Tiguex. 

When Coronado reached Tiguex, he put the whole com- 


42 


STORIES OF THE 


mand — which was now together once more — into winter 
quarters. 

“When winter was over Coronado ordered the prepara- 
tion to be made for the march to Quivira. Every one then 
began to make his arrangements, nevertheless, as it often 
happens in the Indies, things did not turn out as people in- 
tended, but as God pleased. One day of festival the general 
went forth on horse-back, as was his custom, to run at the 
ring with Don Pedro Maldonado. He was mounted on an 
excellent horse, but his valets having changed the girth of his 
saddle, and having taken a rotten one, it broke in mid-course, 
and the rider unfortunately fell near Don Pedro, whose horse 
was in full career, and in springing over his body, kicked him 
in the head, thus inflicting an injury which kept him a long 
time in bed and placed him within two fingers of death. 

“ The result of this was that, being of a superstitious 
nature, and having been foretold by a certain mathematician 
of Salamanca, who was his friend, that he should one day 
find himself the omnipotent lord of a distant country, but 
that he should have a fall that would cause his death, he was 
very anxious to hasten home and die near his wife and chil- 
dren.” 

This so worked upon Coronada, says the historian, that 
he feigned to be more ill than he really was, and he thus 
worked upon the army as to induce them to petition him to 
return to New Spain. They began openly to declare that, 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


43 


inasmuch as there had been no rich country discovered, it 
was better to abandon any further search. 

Coronado, upon the development of this spirit among 
his soldiers, which he himself had mainly brought about, 
turned his line of march to Mexico, passing through Cibola 
and other places on his journey out. 

Coronado met with some resistance, and had many of 
his men and horses killed on the route. 

On his arrival in the City of Mexico, he was received 
with ill-grace by the Viceroy, says the historian, but, never- 
theless, he received his discharge, yet he lost his reputation, 
and soon after his government of New Galicia also. 

Thus ended the great expedition which was fruitless in its 
search for Quivira or for gold. 

Now, let us determine, if possible, the route of Coronado, 
and what points on the Great Plains we can, with some degree 
of reason, declare he visited. 

Civola, or Cibola is the name by which the Mexicans 
designate the buffalo or bison. 

It is defined in Newman’s Dictionary Cibola or Civola, a 
quadruped called the Mexican bull. It seems to have had 
that name in Mexico before the conquest of Cortez, and that a 
skeleton of one was among Montezuma’s collection of curi- 
osities. But there were none within eight hundred miles of 
the boundary of the Mexican civilization. 

At all events Cibola or Civola meant the buffalo country, 
and it is quite possible that the place now known as Quivira, 


44 


STORIES OF THE 


was the true Quivira of the Indians at the time of Coronado’s 
march. But whether deceived by the treacherous Indian 
guide — whom they strangled, as related — or having misunder- 
stood what the Indian meant, the Spaniards gave the name 
of Quivira to an imaginary country situated far north and 
reported abounding in gold, and which Coronado visited. 

Starting with the march from Tiguex, the first important 
place was Cicuye. 

The historian says: “ After a journey of five days from 
Tiguex, Alvarado arrived at Cicuye a very well fortified vil- 
lage, the houses of which are four stories high ” * * * 

Cicuye is built in a narrow valley in the midst of mountains 
covered with pines. It is traversed by a small stream, in 
which we caught some excellent trout.” 

Mr. E. S. Squier, Mr. Kern, and Col. Simpson have 
determined the ruins of Pecos on the Rio Pecos to be the 
Cicuye of Coronado.* They are “situated in a narrow val- 
ley in the midst of pines, and the site is traversed by a small 
silvery stream in which can be found some excellent trout,” 
says the historian. 

I well remember now nearly fifteen years ago, I gazed 
with strange feelings the first time upon the ruins of Pecos. It 
was early morning in October, and the wind blew delicious 

♦The ruins on the Rio Pecos have been visited by the writer a doren times or 
more, and each time the proof accumulates that here was located the Cicuye of 
Coronado, and not at Santa Fe, as some here declare. The records of the 
Catholic church, and the priests themselves indorse it, but still it will remain an 
open question I suppose.— H. I. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


45 


and crisp from the tops of the silvery pines piled up in 
the rocky canons on either side. I remember how my 
thoughts wandered back in the shadowy past, when the dead 
and forgotten civilization now in ashes under my feet was 
busy with the music of life. I fancied I could almost see 
the little band of determined Spaniards on their strange 
march over the rugged hills, and as I pulled off pieces of 
the blue fresco from the walls of the old church it seemed 
as fresh as if painted yesterday instead of nearly four hun- 
dred years ago, while the town itself ante-dates the church at 
least a thousand years. 

The rudely carved beams here and there sticking out 
from detached portions of the ruin were as sound as if cut 
that morning from among the towering pines all around me. 
I thought too of Coronado and his “excellent trout” as I 
sat down to breakfast on half a dozen — just pulled from the 
water — in the old adobe ranch of Kosloskie, the generous 
Pole, who has lived on that classic spot for a quarter of a 
century. If any who have ever traveled from Fort Union 
to Santa Fe within the last twenty years should see these 
lines, they will recall the wild scenery, and particularly the 
magnificent trout, always to be found at every meal in the 
old ranch on the Pecos. 

I have not deemed it advisable to enter into a discussion 
of the exact locality of all the places visited by Coronado 
and his adventurous little army, because of the space it 
would require to do the subject justice, and because of the 


46 


STORIES OF THE 


more' important fact that they lie beyond the geographical 
area of our state, and are not germane really to the design of 
this sketch — the march of Coronado into Kansas. There- 
fore, however interesting it may be, and really is, to the stu- 
dent of history, the story of the march will be limited to 
Kansas, and the territory immediately contiguous. 

Quivira, “ the last place visited by Coronado,” says the 
historian. Where was Quivira? has been a fruitful source of 
discussion among geographers for the past half century. 

“Coronado appears to have proceeded as far north as 
near the fortieth degree of latitude, in search of Quivira,” 
says Mr. Gallatin. 

Colonel Simpson, an excellent authority, says : “Now it 
is something singular, so far as I have been able to investi- 
gate, there is no such place as Quivira laid down on the old 
maps in the locality where modern maps show it — namely in 
latitude thirty-four, longitude one hundred and six ; but there 
is a place of that name laid down on the maps in about lati- 
tude forty, as far as Coronado located it. I am, therefore, 
inclined to believe that at the time of Coronado’s expedition 
the former Quivira did not exist. At all events, it is scarcely 
credible that such a remarkable city as Quivira was repre- 
sented to be, so full of gold, etc., situated as it was, only 
about fifty miles from Tiguex , the headquarters of Corona- 
do’s army, and which might have been reached in two days, 
could have been kept from the knowledge and observation 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL, 


47 


of the army for about a year and a half, during all the time 
that a portion of it was stationed at that place.” 

Gregg in commenting on the antiquity of the Quivira 
as laid down in the modern maps — latitude thirty-four — 
says : “ By some persons these ruins have been supposed to 

be the remains of an ancient Pueblo or the Aboriginal City. 
That is not probable however, for the relics of aboriginal 
temples might possibly be mistaken for these Catholic 
churches, yet is it not perceived that the Spanish Coat of Arms 
would be found sculptured and painted on their fa9ades, as 
is the case in more than one instance ?” 

Coronado says : ‘ ‘ The province of Quivira is nine hun- 
dred and fifty leagues * * from Mexico. The place I have 
reached is the fortieth degree of latitude. The earth is the 
best possible for all kinds of productions of Spain, for while 
it is very strong and black, it is well watered by brooks, 
springs and rivers. I found prunes like those of Spain, 
some of which were black, also some excellent grapes and 
mulberries. Following the orders of your majesty I have 
observed the best possible treatment toward the natives of 
this province, and of all others that I have traversed. 

“ They have nothing to complain of me or my people. 
I sojourned twenty-five days in the province of Quivira, as 
much as to thorougly explore the country as to see if I could 
not find some further occasion to serve your majesty, for the 
guides whom I have brought with me have spoken of prov- 
inces still further on. That which I have been able to learn 


48 


STORIES OF THE 


is, that in all this country one can find neither gold nor any 
other metal. They spoke to me of small villages, whose 
inhabitants for the most part did not cultivate the soil. They 
have huts of hides and of willows, and change their places 
of abode with the vaches (buffaloes). The tale they told me 
then (that Quivira was a city abounding in gold) was false. 
In inducing me to part with all my army to come to this 
country, the Indians thought that the country being desert and 
without water, they would conduct us where our horses and 
ourselves would die of hunger ; that is what the guides have 
confessed. They told me that they had acted by the advice 
of the natives of these countries.” 

Jaramillo who was one of the few selected by Coronado 
to accompany him on his long march to Quivira says : 

“ This country has a superb appearance, and such that I 
have not seen better in all Spain, neither in Italy, nor France, 
nor in any other country where I have been in the service of 
your majesty. It is not a country of mountains ; there are 
only some hills, some plains, and some streams of very fine 
water. It satisfies me completely. I presume that it is very 
fertile and favorable for the cultivation of all kinds of fruits. ,, 

Castenado says : “ It is in this country that the Espiritu 
Sancto,* which Don Ferdinand de Soto discovered in Florida, 
takes its source.” 

‘‘The course of this river is so long, and it receives so 
many affluents, that it is of prodigious length to where it de- 

* The Mississippi. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


49 


bouches into the sea, and its fresh waters extend far out after 
you have lost sight of the land.” 

Coronado writes of another large river with a smaller one 
flowing into it. He called these the Saint Peter and Saint 
Paul. 

I am inclined to believe that these two rivers were the 
Arkansas, and the Little Arkansas. 

He also speaks of viewing a large river called the “ Teu- 
carea.” 

This was the Missouri, and he gazed upon it in all prob- 
ability from the spot on which Atchison now stands — but of 
this further on. 

Taking into consideration the fact that New Mexico is 
mountainous, and that Coronado could only have met with 
such a region as he discovers — its richness and blackness of 
soil, the various fruits which he says grew spontaneously — on 
the Great Plains, there can no longer be any doubt of the 
route of his march. 

How familiar it sounds — “Mighty plains and sandy 
heaths so smooth and wearisome ” — a perfect description of 
the mighty stretch of country from the foot of the mountains 
eastward. 

His route was beyond doubt in a northeasterly direction 
from Cicuye (Pecos), and after reaching the vicinity of the 
thirty-seventh parallel, turned nearly due east, and marched 
constantly south of the Arkansas until he arrived at the junc- 
tion of the Arkansas and the Little Arkansas — where Wichita 
6 


50 


STORIES OF THE 


now stands. Taking into consideration the probable error of 
his instruments, he certainly crossed between Hutchinson and 
Wichita. 

He speaks of the two rivers which he called Saint Paul 
and Saint Peter, and could not have known of the existence 
of the Little Arkansas if he had crossed below it. 

Take a map and fold it, so that a line is drawn from the 
thirty-seventh parallel of latitude (where it intersects the one 
hundred and third meridian of longitude*) and the plicature 
will pass directly through the extensive salt plains of the Cim- 
arron, and cut the Arkansas at Wichita; this was undoubt- 
edly the line of Coronado’s march, and the mouth of the 
Little Arkansas was the point of separation from the main 
army, for it will be remembered that about thirty-seven days 
eastward from Tiguex, the provisions failing, the major por- 
tion of the command were obliged to retreat toward the 
latter place, while Coronado with a select number — only thirty- 
six or forty in all— of his cavaliers, continued their journey 
toward the north — still in search of the mythical Quivira — 
the “ land abounding in gold and other precious metals.” 

Let us fancy the shadow on the sun-dial of the ages moved 
backward for nearly four hundred years, and ourselves stand- 
ing on the bank of the beautiful “Little River” where it 
gurgles and splashes over the rounded pebbles, as it pours 
out its contribution of sweet water to that “silent stream” 
whose sand-reaches, and dark eddies constantly pick up more 


*From Greenwich. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


51 


and more of the infiltrated rain drops on its restless way to 
the sea. 

Under the leafiest of the grand old cottonwoods which 
fringed its grassy border — for there were gnarled and tempest 
riven old cottonwoods in those days of the shadowy past— re- 
clined on the velvety sod, with a score or more of Spain’s 
proudest nobles around him, Coronado — the man of visions ; 
the pursuer of a phantom; the dreamer — building his hopes 
out of such stuff as nightmares are created. 

His thoughts, perhaps, wandered back to the splendor of 
that court which gave new worlds to men like him, and as 
the soft spring breeze from the south toyed with his dark 
curls, ambition was still at work beneath, leading him on, till 
it should overleap itself and crush him with the remorseless- 
ness of a demon. 

Listlessly, with the mutterings of mutiny only half choked 
down, in little groups all around him on the fresh sod, sat the 
rank and file of his adventurous band. 

The blue and white anemones in the beauty of their un- 
folding, reflected the gorgeous tint above them, but had no 
charms for the half-starved and awe-stricken soldiers who had 
been deceived by the treacherous guides, and lured into the 
wilderness that there perhaps they might find their death. 

With fear and trembling they gazed upon the magnifi- 
cent picture before them, but its gorgeous colors were black 
to them, and like “ Dead Sea fruit,” all they touched was 
only ashes to their mental lips. 


52 


STORIES OF THE 


Coronado held a council with his nobles, and it was 
deemed wise that most of them should go back, as bootless 
of results as when they started. 

With heavy heart he listened to the counsels of his cava- 
liers, and reluctantly issued the order which, in a measure at 
least, dashed the cup of his ambition to the ground and shat- 
tered it into a thousand fragments. 

The next morning after the deliberations under the cot- 
tonwood, his army was drawn up in line, and he made them 
a strong appeal to remain faithful to the awful oath they had 
taken at Compostella, and bade them farewell; then, as all 
but his few picked friends, who had chosen to follow the for- 
tunes of their commander still further into the wilderness, 
slowly wound their way through the fringe of timber west- 
ward, he mounted his black charger, and with an imperious 
wave of his hand to the north, started in that direction, still 
seeking the Alnaschar of his dreams. 

Returning to the outward march of the command from 
Tiguex, and before they reached the point of separation — as 
I believe the mouth of the Little Arkansas, as stated — it will 
be remembered the historian says : “ On the road they passed 
a great number of salt marshes, where there was a considera- 
ble quantity of salt.” 

These salt ponds or marshes are only to be found in the 
region of country between the Arkansas and the Canadian, 
through which the plicatures in our folded map pass. I do not 
mean that the route is directly east from the intersection of 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


53 


the thirty-seventh parallel with the one hundred and third 
meridian, but that the trail of Coronado has an eastern trend 
from that point, and passing through the salt marshes of the 
Cimarron, terminates at Wichita, or he could not have seen 
the two rivers as the historian relates he did, at any other 
point. If he passed below— to the east of Wichita — he would 
have missed the Little Arkansas completely, and if he cross^ 
ed the Arkansas proper, west of the junction of the two rivers, 
he could only have crossed the Little Arkansas where it is an 
inconsiderable stream, not worthy the dignity of the name of 
St. Paul. 

Coronado crossed the Kaw, I am inclined to believe, a 
short distance east of the ninety-seventh meridian of longi- 
tude, or near where Abilene is now located. 

From thence he went to the high bluffs overlooking the 
city of Atchison, and gazed upon the “great river” “Teuca- 
rea” — the Missouri. 

The most exalted spot overlooking the river at this point 
is where the residence of our distinguished Senator, Hon. J. 
J. Ingalls stands, and it is not improbable the beautiful vista 
which presents itself from the windows of that modest, but 
cultivated home, greeted Coronado’s eyes, nearly four hun- 
dred years ago. 

There upon the rugged cliffs above Atchison, the dream 
of Coronado came to an end, and bitter must have been the 
disappointment, and terrible the wreck of his ambition, as he 
gazed upon the muddy flood at his feet. 


54 


STORIES OF THE 


The province of Quivira — the mythical Quivira, so far 
as it was a land “abounding in gold and other precious met- 
als,” extended from the thirty-ninth to the forty-first degree 
of latitude north and south, and from the ninety-fifth to the 
ninety-seventh degree of longitude, east and west. This was 
about its geographical area, according to the old maps, but 
Coronado did not go beyond where Atchison now stands, or 
about half way between its northern and southern limit. 

There, as he gazed upon the turbulent Missouri — the 
Teucarea of the Indians — he saw that it was useless to pro- 
ceed further toward the north. 

The interminable woods stretching out before him had 
their legends of horror, and his naturally superstitious mind, 
already surfeited with terrible experiences, and confidence 
in his guides completely lost, there was nothing left for him 
to do but to return to Mexico — baffled, defeated and crushed 
with disappointments. 

It is difficult to trace with accuracy the whole of the® re- 
turn march of Coronado, in consequence of the obscurity of 
the narrative and appellations of localities, which if they ever 
had a veritable existence, have been lost in tradition during 
the long interval of time since the date of that memorable ex- 
pedition. 

Whether he returned to the “point of separation” — the 
mouth of the Little Arkansas— or followed the tortuous line 
of the Kaw, and thence westward through the bluffs of the 
Smoky-Hill to some locality where he suddenly turned to the 


LD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


55 


south, (which theory I adopt) must apparently remain a mys- 
tery, unless' in time to come, some now lost, and musty old 
record, shall be discovered that will offer a solution to the 
problem. 

We can, therefore, only speculate, and base our conclu- 
sions upon the meager facts attainable, and depend almost 
entirely upon presumptive evidence to make out a route, 
which at best, is only mere guess work, until we find him 
again south of the Arkansas, and near the mountains. 

My reason for thus defining the probable return march of 
Coronado, are based upon the fact, that on Big Creek in El- 
lis county, there is a huge mass of detached rock, on which 
as late as 1869, could be discovered a series of rude carvings, 
among which was the Spanish Coat of Arms, the Spanish 
flag and a date, which though almost illegible, the figures 
fifteen — for the century — could be still traced, but the year 
had become obliterated. The names cut under the flag were 
illegible beyond hope of deciphering, as was all the other 
chiseling evidently connected with the whole legend. 

I am inclined to believe that Coronado reached his max- 
imum northern point at about where Atchison now stands, 
and that from thence he followed the Missouri south, until he 
reached the mouth of the Kaw, where he turned abruptly 
and marched along its northern bank, until he came to the 
Solomon or North Fork of the Smoky-Hill. 

He then crossed that stream and the Saline, continuing 
along the north bank of the Smoky Hill until Big Creek was 


56 


STORIES OF THE 


reached, from whence he turned abruptly south and crossed 
the Arkansas between Kinsley and where the new town of 
Cimarron, in Ford county, is now located. 

I am not aware whether the rock on Big Creek is in ex- 
istence to-day or not, or if it is, whether the rude carving 
referred to is longer legible. Neither can it be determined 
with any degree of certainty, whether the names and date 
which could be seen as late as I have stated, were those of 
Coronado’s little band. We have to accept it as mere pre- 
sumptive evidence, coupled with the idea that Coronado 
would hardly choose to return by the same route he had fol- 
lowed on his outward march. 

If he actually marched over the route I have described, 
and believe probable, I deduce the idea, that on his arrival at 
Big Creek he turned abruptly toward the south or rather south- 
west, from the fact that where Ellsworth in Ellsworth county 
is located, the Smoky Hill reaches its most southern latitude 
— from that point it gradually trends to the northwest, an^ 
that Coronado observing this (by the use of his instruments) 
made a tangent with it of his line of march, because he saw' 
it (the trend of the river) was leading him away from the true 
course he desired to take. 

It was perfectly' natural too, that at the point of leaving 
his course he should leave some evidence of the fact, and 
more probable that this evidence should be his name, the 
names of the most prominent of his followers, and the flag 
under which he served, cut on the enduring rock. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


57 


That this was the habit of Coronado and all the early 
Spanish explorers, we have only to refer to their routes 
through Mexico, Arizona and New Mexico, where when- 
ever a surface of wall presented itself, there, we find a record 
of the march and its date cut in hard rock. 

Coronado evidently moved in a south-westerly direction 
from his place of departure on the Smoky Hill, for we know 
that he crossed his outward trail south of the Arkansas, and 
his objective point (Tiguex) lying in the prolongation of that 
line, he could have taken no other course. 

His route passed near the Antelope hills (in Texas) a lit- 
tle west of which he crossed the Canadian, and thence south- 
westerly to the Pecos, which he crossed, and marched north- 
westerly to Cicuye (now the ruins of Pecos) heretofore de- 
scribed where we will leave him. 

Thus it appears Coronado traversed the State of Kansas, 
diagonally, twice— in going out, and returning from Quivira, 
and that he followed for a long distance, the course of what 
in after years was known as the “Santa Fe trail,” and was 
therefore the first white man who traveled that great and his- 
toric highway. 

He and his little band of cavaliers have made many 
localities classic ground, yet strange as it may seem, none 
have seen fit to do his memory honor. 

An attempt was made some years since by Geo. W. 
Martin, I believe, to change the name of Davis county to 
that of Coronado. 


58 


STORIES OF THE 


The explorations of Coronado extended over two years, 
and must be regarded as one of the grandest expeditions of 
modern times. 

Although fruitless in results so far as beneficial discover- 
ies were concerned, it convinces us of the indomitable and 
unconquerable spirit of conquest by which the Spaniards 
were imbued, and places them at that period of the world at 
the head of all nations in intelligence and power. 

It would be interesting to follow the fortunes of that 
other expedition up the sea-coast, which was part in reality 
of Coronado’s, but, we have refrained for all but a mere al- 
lusion to it, because it is not within the province of what was 
intended in this sketch. 

In conclusion, I shall give the historian’s idea of the ori- 
gin of the people whom they met on their route through New 
Mexico, to show how crude the opinion extant at that time 
was of the geography of the continent : 

“These nations, which are so entirely different from 
those of all the other nations we have found up to the present 
time, must have come from the region west of the Great India, 
where its coasts, touch those of this country on the west. 

‘ ‘ According to the route they followed they must have 
come from the extremity of the Eastern India, and from a 
very unknown region, which, according to the information of 
the coast, would be situated far in the interior of the land be- 
twixt China and Norway. There must, in fact, be an im- 
mense distance from one sea to the other, according to the 


OLD SANTA FE TRA/L, 


59 


form of the coast as it has been discovered by Captain Villal- 
obos, who took that direction in seeking for China. The 
same occurs when we follow the coast of Florida; it always 
approaches Norway up to the point where the country ‘ des 
baccalaos,’ or codfish is obtained.” 



60 


STORIES OF THE 


THE LEGEND OF TEPEYACAC. 

The 1 2th of December is remarkable in the religious 
calendar of New Mexico as the anniversary of a miraculous 
visit of the Virgin to an uneducated and simple Indian, who 
comes down to us on the pages of history as Juan Diego — a 
hero in every sense of the word, according to the estimate 
placed upon him by the thousands and tens of thousands who 
in the long centuries that have passed have worshiped at the 
shrine, his story and the wonderful confirmatory proof that 
accompanied it, he left them as a precious legacy. 

That Juan Diego was the recipient of a veritable visit 
from the Virgin, is as earnestly and honestly believed in by 
the Catholic world of both Old and New Mexico as the most 
simple and plausible tenet of their church*, and it would be as 
presumptuous to discredit it as to doubt the existence of the 
Virgin herself. 

The legend boasts of considerable antiquity ; dating back 
to a certain Saturday, December 9th, 1531, only a short 
period after the City of Mexico had been selected as the resi- 
dence of that first Bishop (Senior Don Francisco de’Zumar- 
raga) who emulating Alexander, destroyed in the same man- 
ner, the invaluable archives of the country he presided over 
with the title of “Protector of the Indians” in addition to 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


61 


that of his apostolic one. Juan Diego was well deserving the 
honors conferred upon him by one of the holy family, if we 
are to, accept the ingredients of character accorded to him ; for 
he is represented as “recently converted, of pure and un- 
blemished morals, though of lowly birth.” 

It was early morning, and the scarped side of Tepeya- 
cac * reflected the golden sunlight as it streamed in rich floods 
across the dark valley still hushed in the gloomy shadow of 
Popocatapetl, but around whose icy summit played a most 
gorgeous iridescence as the rays glinted from crag to pinnacle. 
Juan Diego deeply impressed with the importance of his re- 
ligious obligations, had long since risen from his humble bed, 
and was well on his way to attend the celebration of the 
mass which the monks of his district directed daily at that 
early hour, and had just reached the summit of the little 
path that ran over Tepeyacac when his meditations were in- 
terrupted by “ a sweet, sonorous and harmonious music, as 
of little birds.” The soft strains and rare melody he could 
not resist, and looking about him to divine the cause of the 
heavenly concert, “he saw a white and shining cloud sur- 
rounded by a rainbow, and in its center a most beautiful lady.” 
Almost prostrated at the enchanting vision before him he 

* “Tepeyacac is a small mountain whose southern side is an inaccessable 
precipice, which looks to the City of Mexico, situated on the south of it at the dis- 
tance of about three miles. Its ascent by whatever part undertaken, except that 
of the pathways made to facilitate the access, is extremely rough and stony. Its 
whole surface is covered with crowfeet, buck and hawthorn, which are common to 
such sterile wastes. The Astec name, Tepeyacac, signifies the abrupt extremity 
or termination of hills ; and in this bluff terminate all the hills to the north of the 
Capital. Mayer, Vol. /. 

7 


62 


STORIES OF THE 


dared not gaze upon it until he was assured by a soft and 
beautiful voice, addressing him in his own language “ not to 
be afraid,”, that she who was conversing with him was “ the 
Virgin Mary, the mother of God,” whose mass he was on his 
way to hear. “She commanded him to go to the Bishop 
and tell him that it was her will that a temple should be built 
to her upon that spot, in which she would show herself a pious 
mother toward him, his nation, devotees, and as many as 
should solicit her support and protection in their hour of need.” 
Juan listened earnestly in an attitude of profound devotion, 
and crossing himself was about to leave the sacred spot when 
the lovely apparition motioned him to stop and hear all she 
had to say ; continuing the lady said: “Be sure, my son, 
for whom I feel a delicate and tender love, that I will repay* 
all you do for me ; I will render you famous ; and will endow 
you with benefits for the diligence and labor you display. 
Now, my servant, in whom I delight, thou hast heard my de- 
sire, go thou in peace.” 

Juan intoxicated with the rapturous vision he had witness- 
ed, forgetting, or rather delayed beyond the hour to say his mat- 
ins at the little church* for which he started out on his early 
journey, immediately wended his way over the mountain and 
down into the valley where he struck the broad highway lead- 
ing into the. city, nor did he stop again until he reached the 
palace gate, within which resided the venerable and illustrious 
archbishop, and with whom he immediately craved an inter- 


view. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


63 


After a few moments parleying with the servants, who 
were loth to disturb their master at that early hour, the prelate 
who was in his study, hearing the commotion outside, himself 
came forth, and being importuned by Juan, who was invited 
by the archbishop to enter the palace, when Juan, all excite- 
ment, poured forth his strange story. The worthy man was 
both incredulous and startled, as Juan related all the marvel- 
ous things he had seen, and repeated with emphasis the mis- 
sion the wonderful apparition had delegated to him. The 
bishop attempted to reason with him upon the possibility of 
what he alleged to have seen, which might only have been a 
creation of his brain, induced by the holy thoughts that filled 
his mind, while on his way to his morning devotion, but upon 
Juan’s insisting that what had appeared was as tangible as the 
presence of the holy father before him, the latter urged him 
to return to his home, and he would consider what it was 
best for one to do who had been so favored above all men, 
and that at some future day, after meditation and prayer upon 
the subject, he would farther advise him. 

Juan submissive, but not altogether inclined to act strictly 
according to the injunctions of the bishop, and with the im- 
pressions of his remarkable adventure of a few hours before 
not by any means effaced from his memory, instead of repair- 
ing to his own home, as he had been enjoined, found himself 
irresistibly drawn toward the little mountain, and to the spot 
where his eyes had feasted upon the lovely picture. He was 
not surprised to find the Most Holy Virgin in the same place 


64 


STORIES OF THE 


where he had first seen her, and apparently waiting his com- 
ing. Kneeling reverently before her, and in most submissive 
language, he told her of his visit to the bishop, and all that 
had transpired at the interview with that righteous man, and 
urging that it were better if she would delegate her wishes to 
some not so lowly and humble as he, feared he would not be 
credited with truthfulness, “ because he was an humble man 
and a plebeian. 5 / The Virgin regarding him with the greatest 
benignity, and smiling upon him in the most heavenly man- 
ner, replied : “To me neither servants nor followers whom 
to send are wanting if I should wish, since I have multitudes 
at my command ; but it is agreeable to me now that thou 
shouldst perform this mission and make the solicitation. 
Through your intervention I wish to give effect to my will,* 
and desire you to speak again with the bishop, and tell him 
he must build a temple in honor of me on this spot ; and that 
it is the Most Holy Virgin Mary, Mother of the true God, 
who sends you. 5 ’ 

Juan filled with the best and purest thoughts his deeply 
religious nature was capable of, and wonderfully impressed 
with the favor that had been accorded him, though realizing 
the awful majesty of the Holy presence before him, tremb- 
lingly answered : “Do not be offended, my Queen and Holy 
Lady, at what I have said, which is not intended to excuse 
me from this office, I hereby pledge myself to repeat what you 
have instructed me to say, to the bishop, and I promise, that 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


65 


at the setting of the sun to morrow I will be here with his 
reply.” 

Juan then in an attitude of the profoundest humility took 
leave again of the entrancing vision, and returned to his own 
home, sad and sorrowful, for he felt that the bishop would not 
give credence to his story, and he would suffer the displeas- 
ure of the Holy Mother on the morrow. 

The next day was Sunday, December ioth, 1531, and 
our devoted Indian attended mass at an early hour as usual, 
at the conclusion of which, realizing what terrible judgment 
might be visited upon him, should he neglect in the slightest 
particular his promised pledge of the day before, he immedi- 
ately set himself about the fulfillment of that obligation. 

Hastening then, he soon reached the gate of the bishop’s 
palace, where as before, he begged he might be admitted to 
his presence. But as on the previous occasion, the servants 
hesitated to give the poor man entrance, and it was only after 
a series of earnest importunity they allowed him to go in. 

Throwing himself upon the floor before the bishop, and 
earnestly imploring that dignitary to listen to him, he with the 
deepest emotion related his second experience on the moun- 
tain. His rude eloquence and impressive manner touched 
the heart of the holy prelate, and lifting Juan up tenderly 
he embraced him ; and with tears in his eyes catechised him 
carefully, but found no prevarication or deviation from a 
straightforward and apparently true tale. He encouraged 
Juan, and told him, that although he believed that he, Juan, 


66 


STORIES OF THE 


had really seen some remarkable vision, still it was not suffi. 
ciently well established for him to take immediate action upon, 
he therefore advised that he should go back to where he had 
seen the apparition, and if the lady made her appearance 
again, he should ask for a sign, through which it might be 
known to the Church, that the “ Mother of God ” had really 
sent him. 

Juan, with the innate consciousness of the truth of his 
statement to the bishop, thanked him, and told him he would 
do all that he desired of him, and with a comparatively light 
heart he left the palace. The Bishop observing that Juan had 
departed from his presence in an entirely different state of 
mind from that in which he had entered, and believing that 
he would follow out his instructions explicitly in relation to 
asking of the party with whom he alleged having conversed 
on the mountain, for some sign, quietly ordered two of 
his confidential servants secretly to watch Juan’s movements, 
and find out without being discovered, who it was he would 
speak to on his arrival at the top of Tepeyacac. These spies 
kept close on the trail of the Indian until he reached the foot 
of the sacred hill, when he suddenly disappeared, and all 
their efforts to find him were unavailing, although they dili- 
gently searched every ravine and portion of the mountain in 
which it was possible for a man to secrete himself. Disgust- 
ed, and weary with much walking, they returned to the pal- 
ace and reported to the bishop that Juan was an imposter, 
and that no credence should be given to his fabulous stories. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


67 


Juan, however, oblivious to the fact that he had been 
watched and to the unwelcome report that had been made to 
the bishop, reached the summit of the mountain in good 
time and in the identical spot where he had first seen her, 
stood the Blessed Virgin, in all the glory and majesty of her 
divine character awaiting his arrival. Juan in the most rev- 
erential manner conveyed to the glorious apparition his inter- 
view with the bishop and the demand made upon him for a 
sign. ^Congratulating Juan upon his faithfulness and obedi- 
ence to her commands she ordered him to return the next 
day and his desire and that of the bishop should be complied 
with. Juan in the most thankful manner for the promised 
sign which should establish his veracity with the bishop, 
declared his intention to return ' at the time specified, and 
upon receiving the blessings of the Virgin departed for home 
much elated at the manner in which events were shaping 
themselves. 

It was nearly night when Juan reached his simple hut 
where much to his astonishment and grief he learned that his 
uncle, Juan Bernadino upon whom he looked as a father had 
been stricken with the dreaded cacolixtli , a malignant disease 
peculiar to the region at certain seasons. Forgetful of all 
else but the sufferings of. his relative he passed the whole of 
the next day (the nth,) in administering such remedies as 
were known to the Indians, and in careful nursing, but with- 
out beneficial results. The morning of the 1 2th dawned but 
found the patient no better, in fact feeling that his end was 


68 


STORIES OF THE 


near and too being a convert to the new religion, he implored 
Juan to hasten .for a priest that he might receive the holy 
sacrament and extreme unction before he died. 

While it was yet but early morning, and in obedience to 
his uncle’s wishes Juan set out to seek a confessor, carefully 
avoiding the upper path across the mountain where he had 
seen the blessed vision, in fear of meeting it again and incur- 
ring the displeasure of the Virgin for his remission in not 
acceding to her command of the day before. So he followed 
a path much lower down which ran close to a spring, hoping 
thereby he might not be intercepted and chided for his short- 
comings. What was his surprise on approaching the spring 
to see the Virgin in all her heavenly radiance waiting to meet, 
him. The sight of the apparition filled Juan with fear and 
trembling as he thought of his dereliction, but as the Virgin 
greeted him with a benignant countenance his alarm some- 
what subsided, but when asked: “Whither goest thou my 
son ? What road is this thou has taken ? ” he became ter- 
ribly confused and ashamed, not knowing what to say. Pres- 
ently, however, he cast his eyes toward the Holy Lady, and 
observing the heavenly smile which lighted up her features 
he took courage and said : “Do not be offended Beloved 
Virgin, at what I am about to say to you ; ” and after 
inquiring in relation to her health , explained the cause of his 
absence of the day previous, and the mission upon which he 
was now bent, and hoped she would permit him to pass ; 
that he would return soon and carry out her mandates. His 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


69 


story was listened to with the utmost suavity and gentleness, 
at the end of which the Virgin said to him : “Hear my son 
what I say. Do not allow yourself to be disturbed or afflicted 
by anything ; neither fear infirmity, affliction, nor grief. Am 
not I, your mother, here ? Are you not under my shield 
and protection ? Do you need more ? Give yourself neither 
trouble nor concern on account of the illness of your uncle, 
who will not die of this present malady, and, morover, rest 
satisfied that even at this instant he is perfectly cured." 

Juan knowing now, that upon this, the third appearance 
of the beautiful vision, he was really in the awful presence of 
one of the Holy Family, and that it was not a phantasmagoria, 
the effect of a disturbed brain as had been suggested by the 
bishop, comforted himself with the thought, and abandoning 
all solicitude for the condition of his relative, asked for the 
promised “ sign.” The Virgin then directed him to “listen 
and carefully comply with her commands." She then told 
him to go to the place where she had first met him, and “ cut- 
ing the flowers he would find there, to fill his blanket with 
them and return to her." Juan, in a spirit of perfect faith, 
hastened to obey, although he knew that nothing but thorns 
and brambles grew on the alkali ridge where he was directed 
to find flowers. Juan soon reached the spot where his eyes, 
days previously, had first feasted on the beautiful vision, and 
to his intense surprise, discovered a “bed of various budding 
flowers, odorous and yet wet with dew." He gazed long and 
fondly on the exquisitely formed and fragrant floral picture, 


70 


STORIES OF THE 


and then suddenly remembering his mission, soon filled his 
blanket, as commanded, and carried them to the Virgin, 
whom he found waiting at the foot of a palm tree, called by 
the natives Cualzahauil, and which bears beautiful white lily- 
shaped flowers. Juan presented her with the contents of his 
blanket in the most obsequious manner, and knelt at her feet 
in the attitude of prayer. The Lady, kindly smiling on Juan, 
took the offering in her hands, blessed the flowers and re-ar- 
ranging them in the blanket, said to Juan : “This is the sign 
I wish you to take to the bishop, in order that he may build 
me a temple on this spot, and I command you, that you show 
no one what you have until you arrive in the presence of the 
bishop. ” The Virgin then blessed Juan who, with a happy 
heart, started on a run for the city and the palace of the 
bishop, for he knew now that he had tangible evidence to 
show that high functionary, and that his vision was realistic 
and that he would be believed. Juan soon reached the pal- 
ace gate with his precious burden, and in an excited manner 
demanded to see the bishop at once, but the gate-keeper, 
knowing of his former visits and their bootlessness, declined 
to admit him. Juan, however, grew so impatient, and so 
enraged the man, that at last, after attempting to divest Juan 
of his precious gift of flowers, but observing that they were 
miraculously interwoven in his blanket, himself hastened to 
the bishop to inform him of the strange phenomenon, 
closely followed by Juan. The bishop, being informed of 
the remarkable occurrence, ordered Juan to come into his 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


71 


presence immediately. The Indian then unrolled his blanket 
before the eyes of the astonished prelate to exhibit the “ sign,” 
when lo ! “the image of the Most Holy Virgin appeared 
painted upon the garment.” As this most wonderful miracle 
greeted the bishop and his attendants, they all fell dowh and 
worshiped it with the greatest reverence. Poor Juan was as 
much surprised as any of them, he had no idea that his 
“ sign” consisted of anything more than the loved flowers, 
and these, to him, were sufficient themselves, growing in 
winter and their radiant beauty, to satisfy him that he had 
really been given a sign. The bishop, after the proper ado- 
ration had been said to the wonderful picture, rose from his 
knees and reverently untied the knot that secured the blanket 
to Juan’s neck, and taking it to his chapel, hung the “ sacred 
cloth” behind the high altar, and again “gave thanks to 
God for so striking a miracle.” 

Juan during all that day was right royally entertained by 
the bishop, and the next day wUs ordered to show the exact 
place on the mountain where he had first seen the beautiful 
vision, and then the bishop was to order a temple to be erected 
to the memory of the Most Blessed and Holy Virgin, but upon 
reaching the summit, the Indian could not determine upon 
the exact locality, whereupon — as the legend declares — a 
stream gushed forth and “indicated it.” 

After this event, Juan begged permission of the bishop 
and the multitude of dignitaries that had accompanied him to 
the hill, to go and see his uncle whom he had left “nigh unto 


72 


STORIES OF THE 


death.” The worthy prelate consented and sent some of his 
retinue with Juan, and with orders if they found Juan Berna- 
dino, his uncle, to bring him back with them. 

As the crowd neared the village they met Bernadino 
perfectly recovered, and coming out to greet them. Juan 
then related his experience to his uncle, who declared that 
“on the self-same hour” on which the Most Holy Virgin an- 
nounced his recovery, she had appeared to him, and not on- 
ly cured him, but also had directed him to build a temple to 
her at Tepeyacac, where her image should be called “Holy 
Maria de Guadalupe.” 

In course of time, the celebrated church was built at Te- 
peyacac, and the alleged miraculous picture still hangs on its 
wall behind the great altar, as beautiful and as full of interest 
as when placed there nearly three hundred and fifty years ago. 

It is sacredly guarded, and only a favored few are per- 
mitted to gaze upon its “exquisite sublimity.” This honor 
was accorded to Mr. Seward during his visit to Mexico on his 
remarkable tour of the world, and in his book I believe he 
refers to it. 

In one of the old churches at Santa Fe — the church of 
“Our Lady of Guadalupe” — may be seen a copy of the ex- 
quisite picture. The “Virgin” is represented — with a most 
decided caste of Indian features and complexion — standing 
upon the crescent moon, which in turn is supported by bodi- 
less cherubs ; her mantle is intensely blue, studded with stars 
and falls gracefully from her forehead to her feet. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


73 


In every house, in both Old and New Mexico, whether 
of the most abject or most opulent, an image of “Our Lady of 
Guadalupe” may be found, and her services are frequently 
called into requisition with much prayer and penance, as the 
tutelar saint of the country. 



8 


74 


STORIES OF THE 


, THE FIGHT ON LOWREY’S ISLAND (OPPOSITE 
LARNED), TWENTY YEARS AGO. 

It was a magnificent September day in the early part of 
that month in the year i860. The amber mist of the glo- 
rious Indian summer hung in light clouds over the rippling 
Pawnee, and the sheen of the noon-day sun on the Arkansas, 
made that silent stream where it broadens out lake -like, 
toward the now thriving little village of Garfield, sparkle 
and scintillate until it was painful for the eyes to rest upon it. 
The low group of sand-hills loomed up white and silvery, like 
the chalk cliffs of Dover, for in those days — before the march 
of immigration had wrought its remarkable changes in our 
climate — these sand-hills were bare, and for miles away the 
contour of the Arkansas could be traced by their conspicuous 
glare. The box elders and cottonwoods that fringed the trib- 
utaries to the river were rapidly donning their Autumn dress 
of russet, and the mirage had already in the early mornings 
commenced its weird and fantastic play with the landscape. 

Under the shadow of the bluff where Larned now reposes 
so picturesquely, hundreds of buffaloes were grazing, and on 
the plateau above the crest of the hill, where Mayor Sunder- 
land’s handsome residence overlooks the town and the broad 
valley, a few sentinel antelopes were guarding their charge, 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


75 


now quietly ruminating their morning’s meal in the ravines 
running toward the river. 

Near where Brown’s grove is located, under the grateful 
shade of the thickest clumps of timber, about forty wigwams 
were irregularly scattered, and on the hills a herd of two or 
three hundred ponies were lazily feeding, guarded by half a 
dozen superannuated squaws, while a troop of dusky little 
children were chasing the yellow butterflies from the now 
dried and dying sun-flower stalks that so conspicuously mark- 
ed the broad trail to the river. This beautiful spot had been 
selected by Black Kettle, chief of the Cheyennes, for his 
winter camp, to which only a few weeks previously he had 
moved from the Canadian, and settled with his band to hunt 
on the Arkansas Bottom, and watch his enemies, the Pawnees, 
who claimed the same ground, and where year after year the 
most sanguinary battles between the two tribes had been 
fought. Apart from the remainder of the wigwams, and near 
the edge of the stream was the magnificent lodge of Yellow 
Buffalo, the war chief of the Cheyennes. This lodge was 
formed of beautifully porcupined and beaded robes, and its 
interior was graced with a long row of scalps — the trophies of 
his fame as a great warrior. 

On the morning of the date mentioned, I had reached 
the Arkanses at a point a few miles east of the mouth of the 
Pawnee, on my way to Ft. Larned from my ranch on Sharp’s 
Creek, (now in McPherson county,) and when near where 
Larned stands I noticed a large body of Indians in a stoop- 


76 


STORIES OF THE 


ing attitude, as though hunting for something, and I sup- 
posed them to be some of my Kiowa friends on the trail of 
an enemy. I spurred my horse and rode toward them, when 
suddenly they dropped in the grass, which convinced me of 
the error of my first supposition. I was well acquainted at 
that time with nearly all the tribes on the plains, and partic- 
ularly with those who would probably be in that vicinity then, 
and with a fair knowledge of the Indian character I readily 
concluded that my covey in the grass were a band of “ dog 
soldiers,” of some tribe, either on the war path against some 
of the other tribes that roamed in the valley of the Arkansas, 
or were a party to steal horses; in either event I had little to 
fear, as the report of a gun would be the last thing they 
would care to hear just then. 

So I rode on, and when within a hundred yards or so of 
the party, one rose, and holding both hands up with palms to 
the front, in his own dialect called my name. I felt consid- 
erably relieved for I found myself among thirty-two Pawnees, 
who, as I first supposed, were there to steal horses from the 
Cheyennes and Kiowas. On learning this fact, I told them 
that a few miles back on the trail, I had seen a large number 
of Indians on the high prairie scattered out as if surrounding 
buffalo, or elk, but that I had seen no game, and now I knew 
their presence was known to the Arkansas tribes, and that 
there were so many of these wild Indians the few Pawnees 
would all be killed if found. 

They then told me they wanted to reach the island in the 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


77 


river, and there could fight all the Ingins that dare to come, 
and if they got to the island before the wild Indians found 
them, I must go to them and tell them that they were there, 
and myself come and see the fight. That if I staid on my 
horse, either on the east or west side of the island, or on the 
hill on the northwest, I could see it all and be safe from their 
bullets; and if they all got killed I should tell their people 
how grandly and bravely they died. 

I left them and went on toward the fort, and when 
within three miles of it, met “Yellow Buffalo’' with two 
hundred of his warriors, their war-paint on and beating their 
drums furiously. 

“Yellow Buffalo” was then about thirty years old, and 
as magnificent a looking Indian as I ever saw. I delivered 
my message from the Pawnees to him, immediately upon 
which the two hundred warriors raised the war-cry, which 
echoed and reverberated in all the splendor of its savage 
grandeur over the prairie, and which none but those who 
have heard it under such circumstances can appreciate. 

Stung to the heart by my message of defiance, “Yellow 
Buffalo ” appeared the true savage that he really was, all the 
ferocity of his wild nature glaring in his eyes as he thought of 
the deep wrongs done to his tribe by the “dogs of Pawnees !” 
as he called them, and appealing to his men “ that now was 
the time presented to them, to not only reap an adequate 
revenge, but add lasting laurels to their wreaths as brave and 
skillful warriors,” he again gave the signal for another chal- 


78 


STORIES OF THE 


lenging yell, and pointed to the hiding place of his enemies 
down the river with an air of derision. 

We were a short distance south of the old Santa Fe 
trail, and ordering his band to turn nearly due south, we 
loped off in the direction of the island. As we neared the 
river bank, we saw the last of the Pawnees — who had been 
watching our approach — plunge into the stream and reach 
the island in safety, as our advance halted on the spot where 
now rests the horth end of the Larned bridge. It was about 
two o’clock in the afternoon, the Cheyennes dismounted, and 
every tenth man went to the rear to hold the horses and 
guard them from a possible flank movement on the part of 
the Pawnees. I was honored by “ Yellow Buffalo” with the 
privilege of taking care of my own horse — which, I am 
happy to say, I did from a position on the south end of the 
hill west of the town, and as near the river as was prudent 
for a non-combatant. Nearly all the Cheyennes were armed 
with muzzle-loading rifles, and a third of them had Colt’s 
large army revolvers. At the command of their chief, “Yel- 
low Buffalo ” the Cheyennes formed a line of battle, which 
seemed to extend up and down the river the whole length of 
the island, while five or six of them acted as flankers. Dur- 
ing this disposition of the forces, not a Pawnee was to be 
seen. 

In those days the island was covered only with dwarf 
willows, the Box-Elders which have, within the past few 
years, graced it, were then unknown, and instead of the park- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


79 


like and arborescent form it assumes to-day, it was merely a 
rather excellent hiding place for the savage, or a home for 
the fragrant skunk. The thick willows concealed the watch- 
ful Pawnees, who were rather better armed than the Chey- 
ennes, in consequence of the former living in close communion 
with the settlements. They each had a Spencer carbine — 
then the arm par- excellence of the frontier — and two revolv- 
ers either army or navy pattern, besides their bows, and quiv- 
ers well filled with arrows. When all was in readiness, and 
“ Yellow Buffalo ”had made a proper disposition of his forces, 
he gave the order to charge ! Upon hearing his clear voice 
ring across the prairie, his warriors responded with a most un- 
earthly yell that seemed to shake even the eternal dunes of 
sand on the opposite side of the river, and then rushed pell- 
mell into the Arkansas. The water was waist high, and as 
they advanced they kept up their infernal whoop until they 
reached within ten feet of the island, when like a flash of light 
from a clear sky came a sheet of flame from the edge of the 
willows, which was promptly responded to by the braves in 
the water. 

In an instant, however, as much to my surprise as to 
their enemies, the Pawnees delivered from their ranks an 
other volley followed immediately by the quick sharp crack 
of their revolvers, which seemed completely to overwhelm 
and discomfort the Cheyennes, all of whom beat a hasty retreat 
to the main land. Their war-whoop ceased the instant the 
Cheyennes commenced their backward march, and in a mo- 


80 


STORJES OF THE 


ment some twenty of the Pawnees appeared above the willows, 
and kept up a well directed fire on their foes until the latter 
reached the bank of the river. 

In this single charge of the Cheyennes, thirteen were 
killed outright and twenty-three wounded, which evinced a 
coolness and deliberation on the part of the. Pawnees not ex- 
celled by the best organized troops. The Cheyennes in their 
charge showed their characteristic recklessness and daring, 
which, however, counted for nothing in results, as all the 
shots were carried clear over the heads of the Pawnees who 
were concealed by the friendly willows. 

While the main body of the Pawnees were keeping up their 
almost incessant fire upon the retreating Cheyennes, three or 
four others arose at opposite ends of the Island, and opened 
with some well delivered shots with their carbines at the 
Cheyenne flankers, so that the whole number became demor- 
alized, and “Yellow Buffalo,’ ’ with all his painted warriors, 
fled as far back as to where the Presbyterian church now 
stands on Main street, and held a council. “Yellow Buffalo” 
then got on his horse and rode up the hill to me, and asked 
me “how many Pawnees I had seen.” 

I told him I did not count them, but to the best of my 
judgment there were not more than thirty-five, but the way 
they spoke of reaching the island as a place of safety, they 
might have had reference to more men there, than to the 
strength of their medicine. 

He answered despondingly, “they must have more than 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL, 


81 


two hundred from the number of shots fired, and the way 
they were scattered along the bank.” 

“Yellow Buffalo” then dispatched a messenger for rein- 
forcements/ and in about an hour they arrived from the south 
of the river to the number of four or five hundred, and upon 
their joining the others, “ Yellow Buffalo ” made the same dis- 
position of his now augmented forces as he had with his 
original army, and then turned his command over to “ Black 
Kettle,” who had come on the ground. 

“ Black Kettle kept his Indians in close order, and when 
they reached within shooting distance of the island, the Paw- 
nees opened upon them with a terrible volley, and the most 
deafening and diabolical yells, and kept it up for at least ten 
minutes. The poor Cheyennes returned the fire as best they 
could, but invariably overshot the Pawnees whom they could 
not see, so closely were they hidden by the willows. 

In the wild firing, many bullets passed over my head, 
and I made a masterly strategic movement to the east of the 
town, and again escaped danger. Meanwhile, “Black Ket- 
tle, as well as myself, ingloriously retreated from whence we 
came, and then “Yellow Buffalo” felt himself no more dis- 
graced than the “head war chief” and his chosen warriors. 
Thus ended this rather remarkable fight. I never could 
learn definitely how many of the Cheyenne^ were killed or 
wounded in the second charge — the Pawnees told me they 
were double the number of the first charge, but coming as 
it did from the victors, I always made a reasonable allowance 


82 


STORIES OF THE 


for possible exaggeration. The Cheyennes utterly refused to 
tell me the number of their loss, but I saw the wounded that 
night, and helped dress most of their wounds. There were 
twenty-eight in “Black Kettle’s” camp alone. He admitted 
no deaths, but I saw them pack more than thirty out of the 
river, and the Pawnees took five scalps, which I saw them go 
and procure about twenty minutes after the second charge. 
On my return from the Fort next day with my mail, the Chey- 
ennes informed me that these same Pawnees charged through 
the guards and actually drove off about two hundred of the 
Cheyennes’ ponies. 

The Pawnees assured me that they had but forty warri- 
ors all told, and they they lost in killed and wounded but 
two. The Cheyennes stated, however, that they “found five 
graves in the sand-hills under the edge of the water, which 
they exhumed and left the bodies to rot, and the bones to 
bleach on the prairie like a coyote.” 

The Cheyennes would never refer to the fight of their own 
accord, and only spoke of it with the greatest reluctance when 
the subject was forced upon them. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


83 


A LEGEND OF PAWNEE ROCK; 

OR, 

HOW THE LIFE OF AN OLD TRAPPER WAS SAVED BY A BIRD. 

The thinly scattered, and now almost obliterated trails 
leading in every direction away from Pawnee Rock, have a 
fearful record of desperate adventures and journeys that often 
ended there with tragic death, and volumes could be written 
were it possible to gather the materials floating in legendary 
form among the old trappers, but these are, unfortunately, 
rapidly passing away, and much that would be full of interest 
must be irrevocably lost. 

The hardy trappers in the early days of the “ Great Cen- 
tral Plains,” isolated themselves in the vast solitudes of the 
interior of the continent, and only made their visits to the 
small trading stations on the “ River,” as the Missouri was 
called — like those attributed to angels — ‘‘few ^and far be- 
tween.” 

Many of them indulged in the most extravagant stories 
and strange adventures, occasionally bordering on the super- 
natural, all of which was usually unsuspiciously swallowed by 
the ignorant and gaping crowd of listeners who were ready 
to believe anything of the mysteries beyond the settlements. 

At that time the whole region stretching from the Missouri 
to the Mountains was an unexplored wilderness, excepting a 


84 


STORIES OF THE 


narrow belt contiguous to the river — a sort of terra incognita 
in fact, whose woods and streams abounded in remarkably 
fertile themes for the play of the wildest imagination. 

The trade with New Mexico via the Plains was inau- 
gurated in 1823, at which date the first train of wagons that 
ever traveled in that direction, started from Boonville, Mis- 
souri. Their route was directly up the valley of the Arkansas 
to Pawnee Rock, and for fifty years — until the advent of the 
railroad in this portion of Kansas in 1873 — the trail of the 
freighters passed within a hundred rods of the Rock. 

For years, the idea of the possibility of the settlement of 
that great inter-continental tract never entered the minds of 
even the most sanguine believer in the future of that portion 
of our domain — it was a desert to all intents and purposes, 
according to the early geographers, and a desert it was to 
remain. 

But the extension of our vast railway system beyond the 
Mississippi forever determined the question of the settlement 
of the plains — which in 1872 reached as far as Pawnee Rock. 
The “ desert” has disappeared, and in its place has risen one 
grand picture of fertility and happy homes. 

As has been referred to in “How Pawnee Rock was 
Named,” the remains of those who met their death in the 
vicinity of the Rock are frequently ploughed up in the spring 
and fall. These frequent graves are a source of curiosity and 
a matter of speculation and gossip to those who have recently 
moved here — whose homes have ever been in the far-back 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


85 


civilization of the crowded East, and who are necessarily ig- 
norant of the traditions and history of that portion of the 
plains on which they have settled. Only little more than a 
year ago one of these new-comers, a well-to-do farmer, living 
a few miles west of Larned on Pawnee Bottom, having ob- 
served in one of his fields a singular depression, remarkably 
resembling an old grave, such as is frequently found in ven- 
erable church yards, he determined to dig down and see if 
there was any special cause for the strange indentation on his 
land. 

At a couple of feet below the surface he discovered several 
flat pieces of stone, on one of which the words: “Washing- 
ton” and “ J. Hildreth” were rudely cut, also a line separat- 
ing them, and underneath^the date: “December to” and 
“J. M., 1850.” On another was carved the name “J. H. 
Shell,” and other characters that could not be deciphered. 
On a third stone were the initials “ H. R., 1847,” under- 
neath this was plainly cut “J. R. Boyd,” and still beneath 
this “J. R. Pring.” At the very bottom of the excavation 
were found the lower portion of the skull, one or two ribs, 
and one of the bones of the leg of a human being. The piece 
of skull was found near the center of the grave, for such it 
certainly was. Who were the parties whose names were thus 
strangely handed down on those rude fragments of stone ? 
Who had been buried there, and why could only the under 
portion of the skull of one be found ? Was he an emigrant 
crossing the plains for far-off Oregon, or the rich placers of 
9 


86 


STORIES OF THE 


California, and, stricken by disease, kindly buried there on 
the lone prairie by his companions ? Or was he a hunter, 
and in fierce combat with the Indians sent by the murderous 
scalping knife to his untimely grave ? These were the char- 
acter of the questions a sked of each other in the little settle- 
ment last summer, when the little grave was opened. 

At any rate some one died there, the knowledge of whose 
existence has only thus curiously come to light years after he 
had almost crumbled into dust. 

A story strange and romantic enough for the most sensa- 
tional minds is frequently woven by the brains of our novelists 
out of as few and meager facts as are found in the above simple 
discovery of a few roughly cut stones and crumbling bones, 
and an imaginative writer could easily weave one out of these, 
but such is not my purpose. 

At the time of the discovery of this old grave I consulted 
my book of notes and memoranda taken hurriedly at intervals 
on the plains for half a life-time, to see if I could find in the 
legends and anecdotes I have picked up from time to time, 
anything that would solve the mystery attached to that quiet 
prairie grave and its contents. I succeeded in finding among 
my mass of manuscript a crude and unadorned little sketch, 
gleaned from an old trapper some twelve years since, that 
partially clears up the secret, and throws a ray of light upon 
the death of him whose bones have been waiting Christian 
burial, on the river bottom, a few miles from Pawnee Rock, 
these thirty years. A conversation and interchange of notes 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


87 


on the subject with Col. A. G. Boone* the past winter, con- 
firms the probability of the truth of the story as given to me 
so many years ago. 

Of course every one who has lived or traveled on the 
plains during the last quarter of a century, remembers Uncle 
John Smith, f He was an old trapper and guide — had been 
among the Indians for more than forty years — and figured 
only a little less conspicuously in the history of the Far West 
than Kit Carson, Maxwell and other sons of the border. 

Old Uncle John was a character in his way, and as full 
of cranks and superstitions as a Congo negro. I am sorry to 
observe, too, that his reputation for unexaggerated and ortho- 
dox truth was not as immaculate as he of the cherry tree 
notoriety, and therefore I should have taken his statement, 
which is the subject of this sketch, cum grano salt's, had it not 
been confirmed by that eloquent old gentleman, Col. Boone. 

“ Uncle John”' was a perfect encyclopedia of plains’ 
lore, and acquainted with every foot of country beyond the 
Missouri, or as he used to express it, “ had slept under every 
cottonwood and drank out of every spring from the mouth 
of the Yellowstone to the Red river of the South.” 

I was camping with the old man in November, 1868, on 

♦Col. A. G. Boone is still hale and vigorous, and as wiry as his celebrated grand 
father, the pioneer hero of Kentucky. He is a splendid specimen of a well-preserved 
frontiersman, possessing a knowledge of the Indian in all his varied situations not 
excelled by any one, and enjoys the confidence of nearly all the tribes and every 
old white hunter on the plains. H. I. 

fHe died irf 1873, and is buried among the Cheyennes, who adopted him more 
than forty years ago. 


88 


STORIES OF THE 


the bank of the Wachita, only a short time after Custer’s mem- 
orable fight with Black Kettle, waiting with a train of sup- 
plies for the troops who had been ordered to rendezvous by 
General Sheridan at that point. We had been living almost 
exclusively on wild turkey for the weary fourteen days of our 
sojourn on that historic creek, and were heartily tired of them. 
One evening some of our party had succeeded in bagging a 
few quails, and when the announcement was made of a pro- 
spective change of diet, it was received with evident satisfac- 
tion. Late in the evening when my cook brought the de- 
licious little birds, beautifully spitted, on peeled willow twigs, 
into my tent, and passed one to “Uncle John” in his turn, 
he refused. Said he, “ Boys, I don’t eat no quail.” 

All the rest of us were completely surprised, for ‘Uncle 
John” was considerable of a gourmand and prided himself 
upon the “faculty,” as he termed it, of being able to eat 
anything, from a piece of jerked buffalo hide to the juiciest 
young antelope steak. 

I said: “ ‘Uncle John,’ these birds are magnificently 
broiled; you are making a mistake, old man; to-morrow we 
must leave here, and as we are going straight away from the 
buffalo country, we don’t know when we shall strike fresh 
meat again. You had better try one. 

“Boys,” said he, “I don’t tech quail; I hain’t teched 
one for more nor twenty years. One of the little cusses 
saved my live once, and I swore right thar and then that I 
would starve fust, and I’ve kept that oath, though I’ve seen 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


89 


the time I could a killed ’em with my quirt, when all I had 
to chaw on for four days was the soles of a greasy old mocca- 
sin.” 

Of course our whole party was eager to know how the 
life of the old trapper had been saved by a little bird, and in 
a few moments every man in camp gathered around the dy- 
ing embers of the cook’s fire to listen to ‘ ‘Uncle John’s” story. 
I filled up the old man’s pipe with some of my best “Lone 
Jack,” lighted it, took a pull, Indian fashion, and passed it 
to him. He loved good tobacco, and was always more commu- 
nicative when seated around the camp-fire, half-hidden in a 
cloud of smoke. One of the men threw a chunk of dry cot- 
tonwood on the coals, and as the flames began to lick up the 
shaggy bark, casting a pleasant shimmer on the old guide’s 
face, he took a vigorous pull at his pipe and commenced. 

“Well, boys, it’s a good many years ago — in June, if I 
don’t disremember — 1847. We was a coming in from way 
up in “Cache le Poudre,” and from Yellowstone Lake, whar 
we’d been a trapping for two seasons. We was a working 
our way slowly back to Independence, Missouri, where we 
was a going to get a new outfit. Let’s see — there was me, 
and a man by the name of Boyd, and Lew Thorp — Lew was 
a working for Colonel Boone at the time — and two more men 
whose names I disremember now, and a nigger wench we 
had for a cook. We had mighty good luck, and had a big 
pile of skins ; and the Indians never troubled us till we got 
down on Pawnee Bottom, this side of Pawnee Rock. We 


90 


STORIES OF THE 


all of us had mighty good ponies, but Thorp had a team and 
wagon, which he was driving for Colonel Boone. 

“We had went into camp on Pawnee Bottom airly in the 
afternoon, and I told the boys to look out for Indians — for I 
knowed ef we was to have any trouble with them it would be 
somewhere in that vicinity. But we didn’t see a darned red- 
skin that night, nor the sign of one. 

“The wolves howled considerable, and cum pretty close 
to the fire after the bacon rinds we’d throwed away after sup- 
per. 

“You see the buffalo was scurse right thar then — it was 
the wrong time o’year. They generally don’t get down onto 
the Arkansas till about September, and when ther’e scurse, 
the wolves and coyotes are mighty sassy, and will steal a 
piece of bacon rind right out of the pan, if you don’t watch 
'em. So we picketed our ponies a little closer, before we 
turned in and we all went to slefcp except one, who sort 
o’ keep watch on the stock. 

“ I was out o’ my blankets mighty airly next morning, 
for I was kind o’ suspicious. I could always tell when In- 
dians was prowling around, and I had a sort of presentment 
something was going to happen — I didn’t like the way the 
coyotes kept yelling — so I rested kind o’ oneasy like, and 
was out among the ponies by the first streak o’ daylight. 

“About the time I could fairly see things, I discovered 
three or four buffalo grazing off on the creek bottom, about a 
half mile away, and I started for my rifle, thinking I would 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


91 


examine her, and after we’d had breakfast go out and blow 
one of the critters in. 

“ Pretty soon I seed Thorp and Boyd crawl out o’ their 
blankets, too, and I called their attention to the buffalo, 
which was still feeding undisturbed. 

“We’d been kind o’ scurse of fresh meat for a couple of 
weeks — ever since we left the Platte, except a jack-rabbit or 
cottontail, and I knowed the boys would be wanting to get 
a quarter or two of a good fat cow, if we could find one in 
the herd so that was the reason I pointed ’em out to ’em. 

“The dew — you see — was mighty heavy, and the grass in 
the bottom was as wet as if it had been raining for a month, 
and I didn’t care to go down whar the buffalo was just then 
— I knowed we had plenty of time and as soon as the sun 
was up it would dry right off. So I got onto one of the po- 
nies and led the others down to the spring near camp to water 
them while the wench was a getting breakfast, and some o’ 
the rest o’ the outfit was a fixin the saddles and greasing the 
wagon. 

“Just as I was coming back — it had growed quite light 
then — I seed Boyd and Thorp start out from camp with 
their rifles and make for the buffalo, so I picketed the ponies, 
gets my rifle and starts off too. 

“ By the time I’d reached the edge of the bottom, Thorp 
and Boyd was a crawling up onto a young bull way off to the 
right, and I lit out for a fat cow I seen bunched up with the 
rest of the herd on the left. 


92 


STORIES OF THE 


“ The grass was mighty tall on some parts of the Arkan- 
sas bottom in them days, and I got within easy shooting 
range without the herd seeing me. 

“The buffalo was now between me and Thorp and Boyd, 
and they was further from camp. I could see them over the 
top of the grass kind o’ edging up to the bull, and I kept a 
crawling on my hands and knees toward the cow, and when 
I got about a hundred and fifty yards of her, I pulled up 
my rifle and drawed a bead. 

“Just as I was running my eye along the bar’l a darned 
little quail flew right out from under my feet and lit exactly 
on my front sight and of course cut off my aim — we didn’t 
shoot reckless in those days ; every shot had to tell, or a 
man was the laughing stock for a month if he missed his 
game. 

“ I shook the little critter off and brought up my rifle again 
when durn my skin if the bird didn’t lite right onto the 
same place ; at the same time my eyes growed kind o’ hazy 
like and in a minute I didn’t know nothing. 

“When I come to the quail was gone, I heerd a couple of 
rifle shots, and right in front of where the bull had stood and 
close to Thorp and Boyd, half a dozen Indians jumped up 
out o’ the tall grass and firing into the two men, killed Thorp 
instantly and wounded Boyd 

“He and me got to camp — keeping off the Indians who 
knowed I was loaded — when we, with the rest of the outfit? 
drove the red devils away. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


93 


“They was Apaches, and the fellow that shot Thorp was 
a half breed nigger and Apache. He scalped Thorp and car- 
ried off the whole upper part of his skull with it. He got 
Thorp’s rifle and bullet pouch too, and his knife.* 

“We buried Thorp in the bottom here, and some of the 
party cut their names on the stones that they covered his 
body up with, to keep the coyotes from eating up his bones. 

“Boyd got onto the river with us all right, and I never 
heerd of him after we separated at Booneville. We pulled 
out soon after the Indians left, but we didn’t get no buffalo 
meat. 

“You see boys, if I’d* a fired into that cow the devils 
would a had me before I could a got a patch on my ball — 
didn’t have no breech-loaders in them days, and it took as 
much judgment to know how to load a rifle properly as it did 
to shoot it. 

“Them Indians knowed all that — they knowed I hadn’t 
fired, so they kept a respectable distance. I would a fired 
but the quail saved my life by interfering with my sight — and 
that’s the reason I don’t eat no quail — I hain’t superstitious, 
but I don’t believe they was meant to be eat.” 

Uncle John stuck to his text, I believe, until he died, 
and you could never disabuse his mind of the idea that the 
quail lighting on his rifle was not a special interposition of 
Providence. 

^Col. A. G. Boone confirms all this, and got bick the articles a short time af 
terward from the Chief of the Apaches. 


94 


STORIES OF THE 


ANOTHER LEGEND OF PAWNEE ROCK. 

“ Pawnee Rock ” has probably been the scene of a hun- 
dred fights, and a volume could be written in relation to it. 
Kit Carson, one night some fifteen years ago, when he, Jack 
Henderson, Lucien B. Maxwell, a couple of Apache Indi- 
ans and myself, were camped half way up the rugged sides 
of “ Old Baldy,” in the “ Raton Range,” told in his pecul- 
iarly expressive way, among other border reminiscences, the 
following little story, the incidents of which occurred long 
years ago. 

The night was cold, although midsummer, and we were 
huddled around a little fire of pine knots more than eight 
thousand feet above the level of the sea, close to the snow 
limit. We had left Maxwell’s early in the morning to trace 
a quartz lead that cropped out near the mouth of the copper 
mine worked by him, and night overtook us many miles from 
the ranch, so we concluded to remain on the mountain un- 
til daylight. We had no blankets, and, of course, had to sit 
up through the long hours, and as it was terribly cold, made 
a fire, filled our pipes, and spun yarns to keep awake. Our 
lunch that we had brought was eaten up about noon, so we 
were supperless as well, but a swift, cold mountain stream 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


95 


ran close to our little camp and we took a swallow of that 
occasionally, which served the place of a meal. 

Kit (the GeneYal, as every one called him) was in a good 
humor for talking, and we naturally took advantage of this 
to draw him out, for usually he was the most reticent of men 
in relation to his own exploits. The night was pretty dark — 
there was no moon — and our fire of dry knots blazed up beau- 
tifully every time the two Indians — whom we had appointed 
to this special duty — threw a fresh armful on. The flames 
cast their weird and fanciful shadows on the side of the 
mountain, and contrasted curiously with the inky blackness 
all around below us, while far above could be seen the dim 
outline of “ Old Baldy’s” scarred and weather-beaten crest, 
piled crag upon crag until they seemed to touch the star-lit 
sky. 

For an hour or two the conversation was confined to the 
probabilities of gold being found in paying quantities in the 
mountains and gulches of the range, and when the interest 
on that subject flagged, Maxwell having made a casual re- 
mark in relation to some peak near by, just discernable in th* 
darkness, and connecting the locality with some trouble he 
had had ten or a dozen years before with the Indians, opened 
Kit Carson’s mouth, and he said he remembered one of the 
“ worst difficults ” a man ever got into, so he made a fresh 
corn shuck cigarette and told us the following about Pawnee 
Rock, which he said had been written up years ago, and that 
he had a paper containing it, (which he afterward gave me,) 


96 


STORIES OF THE 


and which, with what Kit related orally that night, is here 
presented : 

“ It was old Jim Gibson — poor fellow he went under in a 
fight with the Utes over twenty years ago, and his bones are 
bleaching somewhere in the dark canons of the Range, or 
on the slopes of the Spanish Peaks. He used to tell of a 
scrimmage he and another fellow had on the Arkansas with 
the Kiowas in 1836. 

“]im and his pardner, Bill something or other, I disremem- 
ber his name now, had been trapping up in the Powder River 
country during the winter with unusual good luck — the beaver 
was mighty thick in the whole Yellowstone region in them 
days, and Jim and Bill got an early start on. their journey for 
the River that spring — you see they • expected to sell their 
truck in Weston, Missouri, which was the principal trading 
point on the river then. They walked the whole distance — 
over fifteen hundred miles — driving three good mules before 
them, on which their plunder was packed, and they got 
along well enough until they struck the Arkansas at 
Pawnee Rock. Here they met a war-party of about sixty 
Kiowas, who treed them on the Rock. Jim and Bill 
were notoriously brave, and both dead shots. Before they 
reached the Rock, to which they were driven, they killed 
ten of the Kiowas, and had not received a scratch. They 
had plenty of powder and a pouch full of bullets each. They 
also had a couple of jack-rabbits for food in case of a siege, 


OLD SANTA PE TRAIL. 


97 


and the perpendicular walls of the Rock made them a 
natural fortification — an almost impregnable one.* 

“They succeeded in securely picketing their animals on 
the west side of the Rock where they could protect them 
by their unerring rifles — but the story of the fight must be 
told in Jim’s own way — he was a pretty well educated fellow, 
had been to college, I believe, in his younger days, lost the gal 
he was going to marry, or had some bad luck or other, and 
took to the prairies when he was about twenty. I will try to * 
tell it as nearly as he did as possible. 

“After the durned red cusses had treed us, they 
picked up their dead and packed them to their camp at the 
mouth of the creek a little piece off. In a few moments back 
they all came mounted, with all their fixings and war paint 
on. Then they commenced to circle around us, coming clos- 
er, Indian fashion, every time, till they got within easy rifle 
range, when they “slung themselves on the fore side of their 
ponies, and, in that position, opened on us. Their arrows 
fell like a hail storm around us for a few moments, but, as 
good luck would have it, none of them struck. I was afraid 
they would, first of all, attempt to kill our mules; but I sup- 
pose they thought they had the dead wood on us, and the 
mules would come mighty handy for their own use after our 
scalps were dangling at their belts. But we were taking in 

*Pawnee Rock has, through the agency of man, changed much since the ad- 
vent of the railroad. Its once lofty summit has been stripped and the stone used 
for all sorts of purposes by the farmers and the road, so that now it is only a com- 
paratively low mound. — H. I. 

10 


98 


STORIES OF THE 


all the chances — Bill kept his eyes skinned, and whenever he 
saw a stray leg or head he drew a bead on it, and thug, over 
tumbled its owner every time, with a yell of rage. 

“ Whenever they attempted to carry off their dead that 
was the moment we took the advantage, and we poured it 
into them as soon as they rallied for that purpose with telling 
effect. We wasted no shots ; we had now only about forty 
bullets between us, and the miserable cusses seemed thick as 
ever. 

“The sun was nearly down by this time, and at dark 
they did not seem anxious to renew the fight that night, but 
I could see their mounted patrols at a respectable distance on 
every side watching to prevent our escape. I took advan- 
tage of the darkness to go down and get a few buffalo chips 
to cook our supper, for we were mighty hungry, and to change 
the animals to where they could get a little more grass, though 
for that matter it was nearly up to a man’s head all over the 
bottom. 

“I got back to our camp on top without any trouble, 
when we made a little fire and cooked a rabbit. We had to 
go without water and so did the animals, but we did not mind 
the want of it so much ourselves, but pitied the mules that 
had none since we broke camp in the morning. It was no 
use to worry about it though ; the nearest water was in the 
spring at the Indian camp, and it would be certain death to 
attempt to get there without their seeing us. 

“I was afraid the red devils would fire the prairie in the 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


99 


morning, and endeavor to smoke or burn us out. The grass 
was just in a condition to make a lively blaze, and we might 
escape the flames and we might not. 

“We watched with eager eyes for the first gray streaks of 
dawn that would usher in another day — perhaps the last for 
us. 

“ The next morning’s sun had scarcely peeped above the 
horizon, when, with an infernal yell the Indians broke for 
the Rock, and we knew some new project had entered 
their heads. 

“ The wind was springing up pretty fresh, and nature 
seemed to conspire with the red devils if they really meant to 
burn us out, and I had no doubt now from their movements 
that was what they intended. 

“ The darned cusses kept at such a respectable distance 
from our rifles that it chafed us to know that we could not 
stop the infernal throats of some of them with our bullets> 
but we had to choke our rage and watch events closely. 

“I took occasion during the lull in hostilities to crawl 
down to where the mules were and shift them to the east side 
of the “ Rock,” where the wall was the highest, so that the 
flame and smoke might possibly pass by them without so much 
danger as on the exposed other side. 

“ I succeeded in doing this, and also in tearing the grass 
away for several yards around the animals, and was just start- 
ing back when Bill called out, “ Damn ’em, they’ve fired the 
prairie.’ 


100 


STORIES OF THE 


“I reached the top of the Rock in a moment, and 
took in at a glance what was coming. 

“ The spectacle for a short interval was indescribably 
grand. The sun was shining with all the power of its rays on 
the huge clouds of smoke as it rolled down from the north, 
tinting it with glorious a crimson. I had barely time to get un- 
der the shelter of a projecting point of the Rock when the wind 
and smoke swept down to the ground, and instantly we were 
enveloped in the darkness of midnight. 

“ We could not discern a single object; neither Indians, 
horses, the prairie, or sun — and what a terrible wind ! I have 
never experienced its equal in violence since. 

“We stood breathless, and clinging to the projection of 
our little mass of rock did not realize the fire was so near, un- 
til we were struck in the face by the burning buffalo-chips 
that were carried toward us with the rapidity of the wind. 

“ I was really scared ; it seemed as if we must suffocate. 
But we were saved miraculously ; the sheet of flame passed 
us twenty yards away, as the wind fortunately shifted the 
moment the fire reached the foot of the Rock. Yet the 
darkness was so perfect that we did not see the flame ; we 
only knew that we were safe as the clear sky greeted us be- 
hind the dense cloud of smoke. 

“Two of the Indians and their horses were caught in 
their own trap, and perished miserably. They had attempted 
to reach the east side of the Rock where the mules were, 
either to cut them loose or to crawl up on us while bewilder- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


101 


ed in the smoke if we escaped death. But they had proceed- 
ed only a few rods on their little expedition when the terrible 
darkness of the smoke-cloud overtook them. 

“ All the game on the prairie which the fire swept over 
was killed, too. Only a few buffaloes were visible in that 
region before the fire, but even they were killed. 

“ The path of this horrible passage of flames, as we found 
out afterward, was marked all along with the crisp and black- 
ened carcasses of wolves, coyotes, turkeys, grouse, and every 
variety of small birds. Indeed, it seemed as if no living thing 
it met had escaped its fury. 

“ The fire assumed such gigantic proportions and moved 
with such rapidity before the terrible wind, that even the 
Arkansas river did not check its path for a moment, but we 
watched it carried across as readily as if it had not been in 
the way. 

“This fearful prairie-fire traveled at the rate of eight 
miles in fifteen minutes, and was probably the most violent 
in its features that ever visited that country. It was the most 
sublime picture I ever looked upon, and for a moment made 
us forget our perilous position. 

“My first thought after the danger from the fire had 
passed was of the poor mules, I crawled down to where they 
were and found them badly singed, but not seriously hurt. 
I thought ‘ so far so good our mules and traps were all 
right, and we were all right, so we took fresh courage and 


102 


STORIES OF THE 


began to think we should get out of the nasty scrape in some 
way or other. 

“ In the mean time the Indians, with the exception of 
four or five left to guard the Rock so we could not escape, 
had gone back to their camp on the creek, and were evident- 
ly concocting some new stratagem to capture or kill us. 

“We waited patiently two or three hours for the devel- 
opment of events, snatching a little sleep by turns until the 
sun was about four hours high, when the Indians commenced 
their infernal howling again, and we knew they had hit upon 
something, so we were on the alert in a moment to discover 
it and eucher them if possible. 

“The devils this time had tied all their horses together, 
covered them with branches of trees that they had cut on the 
creek, packed all the lodge-skins on these, and then driving 
the living breast-works before them toward us, themselves 
followed close behind on foot. 

“They kept moving slowly but surely in the direction’of 
the ‘ Rock,’ and matters began to look serious for us once 
more. 

“ Bill put his hand in mine, and said, ‘ Jim, now by 
G — d we got to fight, we haint done nothing yit ; this means 
business.’ 

“ I said ‘you’re right, Bill, old fellow; but they can’t 
get us alive. Our plan is to kill their ponies, and make the 
cusses halt.’ 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


103 


the plains — kind ’o threw his eye carelessly along the bar’l of 
his rifle, and one of the ponies tumbled over on the black- 
ened sod. One of the Indians ran out to cut him loose, as 
I expected, and I took him clean off his feet without a groan. 
Quicker than it takes me to tell it, we had stretched out 
twelve of them on the prairie, and we made it so hot for 
them that they got out of range, and were apparently hold- 
ing a council of war. We kept watching the devils’ move- 
ments, for we knew they would soon be up to some con- 
founded trick 

“The others did not make their appearance immediately 
from behind their moving breast-works, so we both fired two 
shots apiece into the horses, killing three of them, and 
throwing the whole outfit into confusion. 

“We soon stopped their little plan, and they had now 
only the dead bodies of the ponies we had killed to protect 
them, for the others had broken loose and stampeded off to 
camp. It was getting pretty hot for Mr. Indian now, who 
was on foot, and in easy range of our rifles. We cleaned 
out one or two more while they were gradually pulling them- 
selves out of range, when of course, we had to stop firing. 
The Indians started off to their camp again and during the 
lull in hostilities took an account of stock, we found we had 
used up all our ammunition except three or four loads, and 
despair seemed to hover over us once more. 

“In a few moments we were surprised to see one of the 
warriors come out alone from the camp, and tearing off a 


104 


STORIES OF THE 


piece of his white blanket, boldly walked toward the ‘ Rock.’ 
Coming up within hearing, he asked if we would have a talk 
with him. We told him yes, but did not look for any good 
results from it. We could not expect anything less than tor- 
ture if we allowed ourselves to be taken alive, so we deter- 
mined not to be caught in any trap. 

‘‘We knew we had done them too much damage to expect 
any mercy, so we prepared to die in the fight, if we must 
die. We beckoned the young buck nearer and listened to 
what he had to communicate. He said they were part of 
White Buffalo’s band of Kiowas, that the war chief who was 
here with them was O-ton-son-e-var, (a herd of buffaloes), 
and that he wanted us to come to the camp — that we were 
’ heap brave ’ — we should be kindly treated, and that the 
tribe would adopt us. They were on their way to the Sioux 
country north of the Platte — that they were going there to 
steal horses from the Sioux. They expected a fight and wan- 
ted us to help them. Bill and myself knew the darned 
Indians too well to swallow their chaff, so we both told him 
we could not think of accepting their terms — that we were 
on our way to the Missouri, and meant to go there or die in 
the attempt — that we did not fear them, the white man’s God 
would take care of us, and that if that was all they had to 
talk about he could go back, and tell his party they could 
commence the fight again as soon as they pleased. 

“ He started back, and before he had reached the creek 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


105 


they came out and met him, had a confab, and then began 
the attack on us at once. 

“We made each of our four loads tell, when we stood 
at bay, almost helpless, and defenseless ; we were at the 
mercy of the savages, and they understood our situation as 
quickly as ourselves. 

“We were now thrown upon our last resource — the 
boys play of throwing stones. As long as we could find 
detached pieces of the rock they did not dare to make an 
assault, and while we were still wondering what next, the 
white flag appeared again and demanded another talk. We 
knew that now we had to come to terms, and made up our 
minds to accept anything that savored of reason, and our 
life, trusting to the future to escape if they kept us as pris- 
oners. 

“ 1 The Kiowas are not coyotes, and they know brave 
men,’ said the Indian ; ‘ we will not kill you, though the 
prairie grass is red with the blood of our warriors that have 
died by your hands. We will give you a chance for your 
lives, and let you prove that the Great Spirit of the white 
man is powerful, and can save you.’ 

“ 4 Behold ! ’ said the Indian, pointing with an arrow to 
a solitary cottonwood on the banks of the Arkansas, a mile 
or more away. ‘ You must go there, and one of you shall 
run the knife-gauntlet from that tree two hundred steps of 
the chief out toward the prairie. If the one who runs 
escapes, both are free, for the Great Spirit has willed it. 


106 


STORIES OF THE 


O-ton-son-e-var* has said it, and the words of the Kiowa are 
true.” 

“ ‘When must the trial take place,’ said I. 

“ ‘ When the sun begins to shine upon the western edge 
of the Rock,’ replied the Indian. 

“ ‘Say to your chief we accept the challenge and I will 

be ready,’ said Bill, motioning the young warrior away. ‘ I 

* 

am sure I can win,’ said he, ‘ and can save both our lives. 
O-ton-son-e-var will keep his word, I know him.’ 

“‘Bill,’ said I, ‘I shall run that race, not you;’ and 
taking him by the hand, I told him that if he saw I was 
going to fail, to watch his chance, and in the excitement of 
the moment mount one of their horses, and fly toward 
Bent’s Fort; he could escape, he was young — it made no 
difference with me— my life was not worth much, but he had 
all before him.’ 

“ ‘No,’ replied Bill, my heart is set on this; I traveled 
the same race once before when the Apaches got me, and 
their knives never struck me once. I ask this favor as my 
life for I have a preseentiment that it is only I that can win. 
I know how to get every advantage of them. So say ‘ no 
more.’ 

“The sun had scarcely gilded the dark line of rock that 
juts out boldly toward the western horizon, before all the 
warriors, with O-ton-son-e-var at their head, marched silently 
toward the tree and beckoned us to come. 

* O-ton-son-e-var in fact was not a Kiowa but a Cheyenne. He died of cholera 
on the head-waters of the Smoky Hill in 1849. — H. I. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


107 


“ Quickly we were on the prairie beside them, when they 
opened a space, and we walked in their center without 
exchanging a word. There were only thirty left of that band 
of sixty proud warriors who had commenced the attack on us 
the day before, and I could see by the scowls with which 
they regarded us, and the convulsive clutching at their knives 
by the younger ones, it was only the presence and power of 
O-ton-son-e-var that prevented them from taking summary 
vengeance upon us. 

“As soon as we reached the tree,. O-ton-son-e-var paced 
the two hundred steps, and arranged his warriors on either 
side, who in a moment stripped themselves to the waist, and 
each seizing, his long scalping knife, and bracing himself, 
held it high over his head, so as to strike a blow that would 
carry it to the hilt at once. 

“ The question of who should be their victim was settled 
immediately, for as I stepped forward to face that narrow 
passage of probable death, the chief signaled me back with 
an impulsive gesture not to be misunderstood, and pointing 
to Bill, told him to prepare himself for the bloody ordeal. 

“ I attempted to protest, and was urging my most earnest 
words, when O-ton-son-e-var said he had decided and ‘ the 
young man must run,’ adding, that ‘even a drop of blood 
from any one of the knives meant death to both.’ 

“ Each savage stood firm, with his glittering blade reflect- 
ing the rays of the evening sun, and on each hard, cold face, 
a determination to have the heart’s blood of their victim. 


108 


STORIES OF THE 


“The case seemed almost hopeless — it was truly a race 
for life, and as Bill prepared himself I wished ourselves back 
on the ‘ Rock ’ with only as many good bullets as the 
number of devils who stood before us, the very impersonation 
of all the hatred of the detestable red man. 

“ How well I remember the coolness and confidence of 
Bill. He could not have been more calm if he had been 
stripping for a foot race for fun. He had perfect faith in the 
result, and when O-ton-son-e-var motioned to commence the 
fearful trial, Bill spoke to me, but I could not answer, my 
grief was too great. 

“ He stripped to his drawers, and, standing there, naked 
from the belt up, was a picture of the noblest manhood I 
ever saw as he waited for the signal. He tightened his belt, 
and stood for a few seconds looking, with compressed lips, 
down the double row of savages, as they stood face to face 
gloating on their victim. It seemed like an age to me, and 
when the signal came I was forced by an irresistible power 
to look upon the terrible scene. 

“At the instant, Bill darted like a flash of lightning 
from the foot of the tree — on rushed the devils with their 
gleaming blades, yelling and crowding one another, and cut- 
ting at poor Bill with all the rage of their revengeful nature. 
But he evaded all their horrible efforts, now tossing a savage 
here, and another one there, now almost creeping like a 
snake at their feet, then like a wild-cat he would jump 
through the line dashing the knives out of their hands, till 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


109 


at last, with a single spring, he passed almost twenty feet 
beyond the mark where the chief stood ! 

“We were saved, and when the disappointed savages 
were crowding around him, I rushed in and threw myself in 
his arms. The chief motioned the impatient warriors away, 
and with sullen footsteps followed them. 

“In a few moments we slowly retraced our way to the 
‘ Rock/ where, taking our mules, we pushed on in the 
direction of the Missouri. We camped on the bank of the 
Arkansas only a few miles from the terrible ‘Rock’ that 
night, but while we were resting around our little fire of buf- 
falo chips, and our animals were quietly nibbling the dried 
grass at our feet, we could still hear the Kiowas chanting the 
death song while they buried their lost warriors under the 
blackened sod of the prairie.’ ” 



11 


no 


STORIES OF THE 


A TERRIBLE TEN MILES RIDE. 

AN INCIDENT IN THE INDIAN WAR OF 1864. 


In all the annals of our “Border Warfare,” none will 
go down to history more conspicuous than the events which 
crowded the year 1864, on the Great Plains of Kansas, 
Nebraska and Colorado. 

Civilization in those troublesome times still cautiously 
hugged the extreme eastern belt of our fair young empire, 
suspicious of the unknown beyond — that immense ocean of 
grass, stretching interminably toward the setting sun. 

The “ hunger for the horizon ” which to-day marks broad 
trails even to the very shadow of the mountains, with long 
lines of white covered wagons, patient oxen, or jaded mules, 
plodding wearily during the bright hours through the alkali 
dust of the desert, had not then been stimulated by marvel- 
ous stories of fair acres lying so bewitchingly beautiful be- 
yond the “Big Blue.” 

The magnificent valley of the “Smoky Hill,” with its 
rich share of wooded streams and fertile uplands, or the still 
more elysian expanse watered by the great Arkansas — that em- 
bryo granary of two continents — were simply known as the 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


Ill 


region through which passed twin inter-oceanic trails— the 
Oregon and the Santa Fe — both now mere memories. 

The Indian summer then as now, wrapped the distant 
hills in its mellow tints, the grass grew brown and rusty as 
each recurring season filled its measure, and the autumn 
days were as grand as Central Kansas ever witnessed, or the 
golden sunshine ever lighted up. The mirage wove its fan- 
tastic forms in the early spring time, and the chain of sand- 
hills that follow the tortuous windings of the Arkansas rested 
dark and misty — then as now — under the curtain of night. 
But the Satanic genius of the Indian hatred brooded on the 
beautiful landscape, and the harvest of the unlabored fields 
was blood. The empire of the plow had not then dawned, 
nor the march of the homesteader begun. The “ iron trail” 
was a possibility, but he was a visionist who argued its prob- 
ability. 

From the outskirts of Council Grove, to the crossing of 
the Cimarron, the echoes of the prairie were awakened by 
the terrible war-whoop of the savage as he wrenched off the 
reeking scalp of his hapless victim. 

The commerce of the Great Plains over that broad path 
through the wilderness — the Santa Fe trail — was at its height, 
and immense trains rolled day after day toward the blue hills 
which guard the portals of New Mexico. Oxen, mules, and 
sometimes horses, tugged wearily, week after week, through 
the monotony of their long journey, their precious freight 
ever tempting the wily nomads to plunder, dissimulation, and 


112 


STORIES OF THE 


murder. Pawnee Rock, Walnut, Coon, Ash, and Cow 
creeks, were mute witnesses of a score or more battles that 
reddened the blossomed prairie in spring time, and the grass 
of the Pawnee, Heath’s Branch and Buckner’s, were resonant 
with the yell of the Kiowas and Cheyennes, who, under the 
pale moonlight, held their hideous saturnalia of butchery. On 
the far-off Wolf and Beaver rivers, where to-day, are gather- 
ed under the guise of a semi-civilization, the remnants of 
those once-powerful tribes — the scattered lodges are decorat- 
ed with the scalp-locks of many who were tempted to brave 
the perilous duty of freighters, in the year of which we write. 

To protect the trains on their weary route through the 
“desert” — as the whole of this region was then termed, and 
confidently believed by the world to be — troops were station- 
ed — a mere handful, relatively — at intervals on the “great 
trail,” to escort the freighters, and United States mail over 
the most exposed and dangerous portions of the route. 
Many an exciting encounter frequently occurred, and many 
thrilling incidents, hair-breadth escapes and “moving acci- 
dents,” belong to the unwritten chapters of the history of 
those times, the book of which is, in a measure, sealed for 
like the ocean, the Great Plains tells but little of its terrible 
record, and rarely gives up its dead. 

The incident which is the subject of this sketch, is as 
thrilling, perhaps, in its details, and as marvelous in its re- 
sults, as any that have come down to us in the history of these 
memorable times. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


113 


It deals with plain facts, and of men who are now living 
— one of whom, the principal actor in the scenes to be 
related, is known favorably all over the state. 

Fort Riley, in the year referred to, was one of the ex- 
treme permanent frontier military posts. Here in November, 
1864, Capt. Henry Booth was stationed. He was chief o 
cavalry, and inspecting officer for the district of the Upper 
Arkansas, the western geographical limit of which extended 
to the foot of the mountains. 

Early in the month, in company with Lieut. Hallowed, 
of the Ninth Wisconsin Battery, he received orders to make 
a tour of inspection of the several out-posts, which extended 
as far as Fort Lyon in Colorado. 

Salina was occupied by one company of the Seventh 
Iowa Cavalry, under command of Captain Hammer. Where 
the old Leavenworth stage route crossed the Smoky Hill, in a 
beautifully timbered bend of that stream, was a little log and 
jacal stofckade, commanded by Lieutenant Ellsworth, also of 
the Seventh Iowa Cavalry. 

To this comparatively insignificant post — insignificant 
only in its appointments, not importance — the commanding 
officer gave his own name, which the county of Ellsworth 
will perpetuate in history. 

At the crossing of the Walnut, on the broad trail to the 
mountains, were stationed three hundred unassigned recruits 
of the Third Wisconsin Cavalry, under the command of 
Captain Conkey. This was one of the most important points 


114 


STORIES OF THE 


of observation on the “Great Overland Route,” for near 
it, passed the favorite highway of the Indians on their yearly 
migrations north and south, in the wake of the strange ellipti- 
cal march of the buffalo to far beyond the Platte, and back 
to the sunny knolls of the Canadian. 

This primitive cantonment grew rapidly in its strategi- 
cal aspect, was later made quite formidable defensively, and 
named Fort Zarah in memory of the youngest son of Major- 
General Curtis, killed by guerrillas somewhere south of Fort 
Scott, while escorting General .James G. Blunt, of Kansas 
fame. 

At Fort Larned, always a prominent place in the military 
history of the Plains, one Company of the Twelfth Kansas, 
and a section of the Ninth Wisconsin Battery, commanded 
by Lieutenant Potter, were stationed. From these troops — 
the isolated disposition of which I have hurriedly related — 
squads, consisting usually of from a dozen to twenty men or 
more, as the case might be, under the charge of a corporal 
or sergeant, were detailed to escort the mail coach, freighters, 
government trains, etc. 

In the story of these little detachments of brave men, 
if it could be gleaned in all its thrilling completeness, the 
escutcheon of Kansas would be made to shine with a more 
glorious radiance than even now ; but, like the purple mist 
that sometimes creeps over her beautiful valleys, vailing the 
splendor of the landscape on the other side, tradition is fast 
relegating the deeds of her early sons to oblivion, and we are 


FORT ZARAH 



f 



116 


STORIES OF THE 


only permitted at times, in some sweet vision' of memory, to 
catch glimpses of their heroic acts. 

On the morning the order to make the special inspection 
of the out-posts referred to was received at Fort Riley, Cap- 
tains Booth and Hallowell immediately commenced active 
preparations for their extended and hazardous drive across 
the Plains. Rifles and pistols, that had for weeks been idly 
hanging on pegs against the barrack walls, were taken down, 
carefully examined and brushed up for possible service in the 
dreary Arkansas Bottom, and camp kettles were soon busily 
sputtering over crackling log fires, for the long ride beyond 
the settlements demanded cooked rations for many a weary 
day. 

All these preliminaries arranged, the question of the 
means of transportation for the two officers was determined 
in this wise, and, as the sequel will show curiously enough, 
saved the lives of the two heroes in the terrible gauntlet they 
were destined to run. 

Captain Hallowell was a famous whip, and prided him- 
self upon his exceptionally fine turn-out which he daily drove 
around the picturesque hills of Fort Riley. 

“ Booth,” said he that morning, “ let’s not take a great 
lumbering ambulance on this trip. If you will get a good 
team of mules from the Quartermaster, I will furnish my 
light wagon and we will do our own driving.” 

“ All right,” replied Booth, “I’ll get the mules.” 

Captain Hallowell, therefore, had a set of bows fitted to 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


117 


his light rig, over which was thrown an army wagon-sheet, 
drawn up behind with a cord, similar to the fashion of the 
average emigrant outfit now daily to be seen upon the roads of 
our western prairie. A round hole was thus left at the end, 
which served as a window and, as will be seen further on, 
played a most important part in the tragedy in which this 
simply-covered wagon figured so conspicuously. 

Two valises, containing their dress uniforms, a box of 
crackers and cheese, meat and sardines, and a bottle of anti- 
snake bite, made up the precious freight for the long journey, 
and in the clear cold of the early morning they rolled out of 
the gates of the Fort, escorted by Company “ L,” of the 
Eleventh Kansas, commanded by Lieutenant Jacob Van 
Antwerp. 

Junction City in those days was in reality the limit of 
civilization, although Abilene, with its solitary log cabin, and 
Salina, with only two, made great pretentions as the most 
westerly cities of the Plains. A single glance at the “howl- 
ing wilderness ” surrounding either place, however, dissi- 
pated all idea of possible or probable future metropolitan 
greatness ; still one was regaled right royally even then, so 
far as the cuisine of Tim Hersey, in his primitive hut on the 
bank of the Muddy, was concerned, for I doubt if ever 
prairie chicken, buffalo steak, or antelope has been more 
deliciously served in the pretentious hotel of 1879, at that 
place, where now the thousands who annually travel moun- 


118 


STORIES OF THE 


tain-ward dine with service of silver and cut glass, and wipe 
their fingers upon damask napkins. 

In the morning our little command reached where now 
Salina nestles so beautifully amidst- her heavily fringed 
streams; the long stretch of magnificent bottom land imme- 
diately west of that town was covered with buffaloes, and 
where the succulent blue stem, keeping pace with our won- 
derful march of civilization, bows rythmically to the summer 
breeze, a thick mat of short primitive herbage made that 
whole region a favorite pasturage for those huge animals, so 
rapidly passing away to-day. 

The rough bluffs that border Alum and Clear Creeks, in 
Ellsworth county, through which the trail wound its tortuous 
way, were always, in those days, a favorite haunt of the 
Indians, and many a solitary straggler has met his death from 
their swift arrows in what are now called the “ Harker Hills.” 

Safely through these dangerous bluffs and across the 
beautiful bottoms, that are to-day dotted with some of the 
most picturesque homes in Ellsworth county, marched the 
little army, and its one white covered ambulance. 

Not an incident disturbed the quiet of the grand autumn 
day, except the occasional slaughter of a buffalo in mere wan- 
tonness now and then by some straggling soldier, and early 
in the afternoon the stockade in the bend of the Smoky Hill 
was reached. 

After an inspection of this remote little garrison, which 
was found in excellent spirits and condition, the line of march 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL, 


119 


was resumed next morning for Captain Conkey’s camp on the 
Walnut. 

The company of one hundred men, acting as an escort, 
was too formidable a number to invite the cupidity of the In- 
dians, and not a sign of one was seen as the dangerous flats 
of Plum Creek and the rolling country beyond were succes- 
sively passed, and the cantonment on the Walnut was reached 
with nothing to disturb the monotony of the march. 

Captain Conkey’s command at this important outpost 
were living in a rude but comfortable sort of a way in the 
simplest of dug-outs constructed along the bank of the stream, 
and the officers, a little more in accordance with military 
dignity, in tents a few rods in rear of the line of huts. 

A stockade stable had been built, with a capacity of two 
hundred and fifty horses, and sufficient hay had been put up 
by the men to carry the animals through the winter. 

The Captain was a brusque but kind hearted man, and 
with him were stationed his other officers, one of whom was 
a son of Admiral Goldsborough, of naval fame. The next 
morning Captain Booth made a rigid inspection of the place, 
which took all day, as an immense amount of property had 
accumulated for condemnation, and when evening came the 
papers, books, etc., were still untouched, and this branch of 
the inspection was postponed until the morning. 

In the evening, while sitting around the camp-fire dis- 
cussing the war, telling stories, etc., Captain Conkey said to 
Booth : “ Captain, it won’t take more than half an hour in 


120 


STORIES OF THE 


the morning to inspect the papers and finish up what you 
have got to do, why don’t you start your escort out early, 
and then they won’t be obliged to trot after the ambulance, 
or you to poke along with them ; you can then move out 
briskly and make time ?” 

Acting upon this suggestion, Captain Booth went over 
the creek to Lieutenant Van Antwerp’s camp and told him 
he need not wait for the ambulance in the morning, but to 
march at about half-past six or seven o’clock in advance. So 
at daylight the escort marched out agreeably to instructions, 
and Booth continued his inspection. 

It was found, however, that either Captain Conkey had 
misjudged the amount of work to be done, or the inspecting 
officer’s ability to do it in a certain time, and nearly three 
hours elapsed before the task was completed. 

At last everything was closed up, much to the satisfac- 
tion of Lieutenant Hallowell, who had been chafing under 
the delay ever since the troops departed. When all was in 
readiness, and the ambulance drawn up in front of the com- 
manding officer’s tent, Lieutenant Hallowell suggested to 
Booth the propriety of taking a few of the men stationed there 
with them until they overtook their own escort, which must 
now be several miles on the trail toward Fort Larned. So 
upon this Booth mentioned it to Captain Conkey, who said : 
“Oh! there’s no danger ; there hasn’t an Indian been seen 
ardund here for more than ten^days.” 

If they had known as much about Indians then as they 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


121 


afterward learned, Captain Conkey’s response, instead of as- 
suring them, would have made them insist upon an escort, 
which Booth, in his official capacity, had the power to order; 
but they were satisfied, and concluded to push on. Jumping 
into their wagon, Lieutenant Hallowed took the lines, and 
away they went rattling over the old log bridge that used to 
span the Walnut, as light of heart as if riding to a dance. It 
was a clear, cold morning, with a stiff breeze blowing from the 
northwest; their trail was frozen hard in some places, and 
was very rough, caused by the travel of heavy trains when it 
was wet. 

Booth sat on the left side with the whip in his hand, oc- 
casionally striking the mules, to keep their speed. Hallowed 
struck up a tune — he was a good singer — and Booth joined 
in as they rolled along oblivious of danger as though they 
were in their quarters at Riley. 

After they had proceeded some distance Hallowed re- 
marked : “The buffalo are grazing a long distance from the 
road to-day— a circumstance I think bodes no good” — he had 
been on the Plains the summer before, and was better ac- 
quainted with Indians and their peculiarities than Captain 
Booth — but the latter replied, he “ thought it was because 
their escort had gone along ahead, and had probably frighten- 
ed them away.” The next mile or two was passed, and still 
they saw no buffalo between the trail and the river, but nothing 
more was said relating to this suspicious circumstance, and 

they rolled rapidly on. 

12 


122 


STORIES OF THE 


When about five or six miles from Zarah, on glancing 
toward the river, to the left and front, Booth saw something 
that looked strangely like a drove of turkeys; he watched 
them intently for a few moments, when they rose up and he 
discovered they were horsemen. He grasped Hallowed's left 
arm, and directed his attention to them, said . “ What's that ?" 
Hallowell cast a hasty look to the point indicated and replying 
“Indians! by George!” immediately turned the mules and 
started them back toward Fort Zarah on a full gallop. 

“ Hold on,” said Booth, “ maybe its part of our escort ?” 

“No, no,” replied Hallowed, “I know it's Indians.” 

“ Well,” replied Booth, “ I'm going to see,” so stepping 
out on the foot board, and holding on to the front bow he 
looked back over the top of the wagon. There was no doubt 
now that they were Indians — they had fully emerged from 
the ravines in which they had hidden, and while he was look- 
ing were slipping their buffalo robes from their shoulders, 
taking arrows out of their quivers, drawing up their spears 
and making ready generally for a red hot time. 

While Booth was intently watching their hostile move- 
ments Hallowed asked, “ they are Indians, a’int they?” 

“ Yes,” replied Booth, ‘and they are coming like blazes.” 

“Oh, my!” said Hallowed, in a despairing tone, “I 
shad never see poor Lizzie again ” — he had only been mar- 
ried a few weeks, and his young wife’s name was Lizzie. 

‘ ‘Never mind Lizzie, ” said Booth, ‘ let's get out of here ; ” 
although he was as badly frightened as Hallowed, but had no 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


123 


bride at Riley, and as he tells it, “ was selfishly thinking of 
himself and escape.” 

Promptly in response to Booth’s remark came back from 
Hallowell, in a voice as firm, clear and determined as ever 
issued from mortal throat : 

“ All right, you do the shooting and I’ll do the driving,” 
and suiting the action to the word, he snatched the whip out 
of Booth’s hand, slipped from the seat to the front of the 
wagon and commenced lashing the mules. 

Booth then crawled back, pulled one of his revolvers — 
he had two, Hallowell only one — then crept, or rather fell over 
the “lazy-back” of the seat and reached the hole made by 
the puckering of the sheet, and counted the Indians ; — thirty- 
four feather-bedecked, paint-bedaubed, and vicious a looking 
outfit as ever scalped a white man, were coming down on 
them like a hawk upon a chicken. 

Booth had hardly reached his place at the back of the 
wagon before Hallowell — between his yells to the mules — 
cries out, “how far are they off now Cap.” — for he could see 
nothing in the rear as he sat. 

Booth answered him as well as he could, and Hallowell 
renewed his lashing and yelling. 

Noiselessly the Indians gained, for they had not uttered 
a whoop as yet. 

Again Hallowell asked : “How far are they off now Cap ?” 
and again Booth gave him an idea of the distance between 






ATTACK OF THE INDIANS UPON CAPTS. BOOTH AND HALLOWELL. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


125 


them and their merciless foe, from which Hallowell gathered 
inspiration for fresh yells and still more vigorous blows. 

Booth was sitting on a box containing crackers, sardines, 
etc., watching the approach of the cut-throats, and saw with 
fear and trembling the ease with which they gained upon the 
little wagon ; he realized then that safety did not lie in flight, 
and that something besides mule’s heels would be necessary to 
preserve his scalp-locks. 

Once more Hallowell inquired the distance between the 
pursuing and pursued, but before Booth could answer, two 
shots were fired from rifles by the Indians accompanied by a 
yell that was enough to make the blood curdle in one’s veins, 
and no reply was needed to acquaint the valorous driver that 
the fiends were sufficiently near to commence making trouble. 
He yelled at the mules, and down came the whip upon the 
poor animal’s backs — Booth yelled, for what reason he did 
not know, unless to keep company with Hallowell — while the 
wagon flew over the rough road like a patent baby-jumper. 

The bullets from the two rifles passed through the wagon 
cover-immediately between- the officers, but did no damage, 
and almost instantly the Indians charged down upon them, 
dividing into two parties, one going on each side, delivering 
a volley of arrows into the wagon as they rode by. 

Just as they darted past the mules, Hallowell cried out : 
“Cap., I’m hit,” and turning round to look at him, Booth 
saw an arrow sticking in his head above his right ear; his arm 
was still plying the whip, which was going as unceasingly as 


126 


STORIES OF THE 


the sails of a windmill, and his yelling only stopped long 
enough to answer “ not much, ” in response to Booth’s “does 
it hurt,” as he grabbed the arrow and pulled it out of his head. 

The Indians by this time had passed on, and then circling 
back, prepared for another charge. 

Booth had already fired at them three or four times, but 
owing to the distance, the jumping of the wagon and the “un- 
steadiness of his nerves ” — as he declares — the shots had not 
decreased to any material extent, the number of their assail- 
ants. 

Down came the red devils again ! dividing as before, and 
delivering another lot of arrows. Hallowell stopped yelling 
long enough to cry out, “I’m hit again Cap.” 

Looking around Booth saw an arrow sticking in Hallo- 
well’s head, just over his left ear this time, and hanging down 
his back like an ornament. 

He snatched it out, asked Hallowed if it hurt him, but 
received the same answer as before — “No, not much.” 

Both were yelling at the top of their voices, the mules 
were jerking the wagon along at a fearful* rate — frightened 
nearly out of their wits at the sight of the Indians and the 
shouting and whipping of their drivers. Booth crawling to 
the back end of the wagon again and looking out, saw the In- 
dians moving across the trail preparing for another charge. 
One old fellow mounted on a black pony was jogging along 
in the center of the road behind them, near enough, and evi- 
dently intent on sending an arrow through the puckered hole 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


127 


of the wagon-sheet. As Booth looked out, the Indian stopped 
his pony and let fly ! Booth dodged back sideways, the arrow 
sped on its course and came whizzing through the hole and 
struck the black-walnut “lazy-back” of the seat, the head 
sticking way through, the sudden checking causing the feath- 
ered end to vibrate rapidly with a vro-o-o-o-ing sound; with 
a sudden blow Booth struck it, breaking the shaft from the 
head, leaving the latter imbedded in the wood. 

As quick as he could, Booth rushed to the hole and fired 
at his aged opponent but failed to hit him ; while he was 
trying to get another shot at him, an arrow came flying from 
th*e left side and struck him on the inside of the elbow, hit- 
ting the nerve or crazy-bone, which so benumbed his hand 
and arm that he could not hold on to the revolver and it 
dropped from his hand into the road. with one load still in its 
chamber. Just then the mules gave an extra jump which 
jerked the wagon nearly from under him, and he fell on the 
end-gate evenly balanced with his hands sprawling outside 
attempting to clutch at something to save himself. 

At this the Indians gave a terribly yell — of exultation 
probably, supposing Booth was going to fall out, but he 
didn’t — he caught hold of one of the wagon-bows and pulled 
himself in again, terribly scared. It was a “close call” and 
no mistake. 

While all this was going on, Hallowell had not been neg- 
lected by the incarnate fiends; about a dozen of them had 


128 


STORIES OF THE 


devoted their time and attention to him, but he had not 
flinched. Just as Booth had regained his equilibrium and 
drawn his second revolver from its holster, Hallowell’ yelled, 
“Right off to the right! Cap., quick !” 

Booth tumbled over the back of the seat, clutching at a bow 
to steady himself, and ‘ right off to the right” was an Indian 
just letting fly at Hallowell ; the arrow struck the side of the 
wagon, Booth at the instant fired at the Indian — missed him 
of course — but he was badly scared, and throwing himself on 
the opposite side of his pony, scooted off over the prairie. 

Back over the seat Bqoth piled again to guard the rear, 
where he found a young buck riding close behind and to the 
right of the wagon, his pony following the trail made by the 
ox-drivers in walking beside their teams. Putting his arm 
around one of the wagon-bows, to prevent his being jerked 
out, Booth quietly stuck his revolver through the hole, but 
before be could fire, the Indian flopped over on the side of 
his pony, and all that could be seen of him was his arm 
around the pony’s neck, and from the knee, down one leg. 
Booth did not fire but waited for him to come up — he could 
almost hit his pony’s head with his hand, so close was he 
running — he struck at it several times but the Indian kept 
him close up by whipping him on the opposite side of his 
neck ; presently, the Indian’s arm began to work, and Booth 
looking, saw that he had fixed an arrow in his bow under 
the pony’s shoulder, and was just on the poiM of shooting at 
him, with the head of the arrow not three feet from his breast 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


129 


as he leaned out of his hole in the wagon-sheet. Booth 
struck frantically at the arrow, dodged back into the wagon, 
up came the Indian, but Booth went out again, for he realized 
that the Indian had to be got away from there, as he would 
make trouble. Whenever Booth went out, down went the 
Indian, up he rose in a moment again, but Booth fearing to 
risk himself with his head and breast exposed at this game of 
“hide and go seek” drew back as the Indian went down the 
third time, and in a second up he came again, but this was 
once too often. Booth had only gotten partly in and had not 
dropped his revolver, so as the Indian rose, instinctively, and 
without taking aim, fired. 

The ball struck him in the left nipple — he was naked to 
the waist — the blood spirted out of the wound almost to the wa- 
gon, his bow and arrow and lariat-rope dropped, he fell back 
on the pony’s rump and rolling from there heavily on the 
ground, with a convulsive straightening of his legs and a char- 
acteristic Ugh! lay as quiet as a stone. 

“I’ve killed one of them Hallowell!” yelled out Booth, 
as the Indian tumbled off his pony. 

“Bully for you !” came back the response, and then he 
continued his shouting and the blows of that tireless whip fell 
incessantly upon the mules. 

All the Indians that were in the rear and saw the young 
warrior fall, rode up to him, circled around his dead 
body, uttering the most unearthly yells, but different from 
anything they had given vent to before. 


130 


STORIES OF THE 


Hallowell from the cramped position in front, noticed 
the change in their tone and asked : “What are they doing 
now, Cap ?” 

Booth explained to him, and Hallowell’s response was 
more vociferous yelling and harder blows upon the poor gal- 
loping mules. 

Booth was still sitting upon the cracker-box watching 
the maneuvers of the Indians, when suddenly, Hallowell 
sang out: “Right off to the right, Cap., quick!” which 
startled him, and whirling around instantly, he saw an In- 
dian within three feet of the wagon with his bow and arrow 
almost ready to shoot; there was no time to get over the seat, 
and as he could not fire by Hallowell, he cried out: “Hit 
him with the whip ! hit him with the whip ! ” The Lieuten- 
ant suiting the action to the word, simply diverted one of 
the blows intended for the mules, and struck the Indian fair 
across the face. 

The whip had a knot on the end to keep it from unrav- 
eling, and this knot must have hit the Indian in the eye, for 
he dropped his bow, put his hands up to his face, rubbed his 
eyes and digging his heel into the left side of his pony, was 
soon out of reach of a revolver, but nevertheless, he was giv- 
en a parting shot — a sort of salute — for it was harmless. 

A terrific yell from the rear at this moment caused Booth 
to look around, and Hallowell to inquire: “ What’s the mat- 
ter now?” “They are coming down upon us like light- 
ning,” replied Booth; and, sure enough, those who had been 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


131 


prancing around their dead comrade were tearing down to- 
ward the wagon like a whirlwind, and with a whoop more 
deafening and hideous than any that had yet preceded it. 

Hallowell yelled louder than ever and lashed the mules 
more furiously still, but the Indians gained upon them as 
easily as a blooded racer on a common farm plug. Separat- 
ing as before, and passing on each side of the wagon, the In- 
dians delivered another volley as they charged by. 

As this charge was made Booth drew away from the 
hole in the rear of the wagon-cover and turned his seat to- 
ward the Indians, but forgot in the excitement, that in the 
manner he was sitting — his back pressed against the sheet- 
his body was plainly outlined probably on the outside. 

When the Indians rushed by and delivered their storm 
of arrows, Hallowell cried out, “I’m hit again, Cap,” and 
Booth in turning around to go to his relief felt something pull- 
ing at him ; glancing over his left shoulder to learn the cause 
of the trouble, he discovered an arrow sticking into him and out 
through the wagon sheet; with a jerk of his body he tore it 
loose, and going to Hallowell asked: “Where are you hit 
now?” “In the back,” he answered; where looking, Booth 
saw an arrow sticking, the shaft extending under the “lazy- 
back” of the seat. Taking hold of it, Booth gave it a pull, 
but Hallowell squirmed so that he desisted. “Pull it out! 
Tull it out ! ” he cried. Booth thereupon took hold of it 
again, and, giving a jerk or two, out it came. He was thor- 
oughly frightened as he saw it leave the Lieutenant’s body, 


132 


STORIES OF THE 


for it seemed to have entered at least six inches, and looked 
as if it must be a dangerous wound; but Hallowed did not 
cease belaboring the mules, and his yells, accompanying the 
blows, rang out as clear as before. 

After pulling out the arrow, Booth turned again to the 
opening in the rear of the wagon to see what new tricks the 
miscreants were up to, when Hallo well yelled again : “ Right 
off to the left Cap., quick ! ” 

Rushing to the front of the wagon as soon as possible, 
Booth saw an Indian in the act of shooting at the Lieutenant 
from the left side and about ten feet away. The last revolver 
was empty, but something had to be done at once, so leveling 
the weapon at him, Booth yelled “ Bang, you son-of-a-gun !” 

Down went the Indian, rap, rap, went his knees against 
the pony’s sides, and away he flew over the prairie. 

Back over the seat Booth tumbled and began to load his 
revolver. The cartridges they had in those days were the 
old-fashioned paper kind, and biting off the end of one he 
would endeavor to pour the powder into the chamber, but 
the wagon was tumbling from side to side and jumping up 
and down as it flew over the rough trail, that more of the 
powder went into the bottom of the wagon than into the re- 
volver. 

Just as he was inserting a ball into the chamber, Hallo- 
well cried out again : “ Right off to the left, Cap., quick ! ” Over 
the seat Booth went once more and there was another Indian 
with his bow and arrow in his hand all ready to pinion the 


OLD SAN T A FE TRAIL. 


133 


Lieutenant ; pointing his revolver at him, Booth yelled as he 
had at the other, but the Indian had evidently noticed the 
failure to fire at the first, and concluded that there were no 
more loads left, so, instead of taking a hasty departure as his 
comrade had done, he grinned a demoniacal grin and en- 
deavored to fix the arrow into his bow. 

Thoroughly frightened now at the aspect things were as- 
suming, Booth rose up in the wagon and grasping hold of 
a bow with his left hand, seized the revolver by the muzzle 
and with all the force he could muster hurled it at the impu- 
dent brute. 

It was a new Remington octagon barrel with sharp cor- 
ners, and when it was thrown turned in the air striking the 
Indian muzzle first on the ribs, cutting a long gash. 

“ Ugh ! ” grunted the Indian, and dropping his bow and 
spear, he flung himself over the side of the pony and away he 
went over the prairie to bother them no more. 

Only the one revolver left now and that empty, and the 
Indians still howling around the apparently doomed men like 
so many demons. 

After he had driven the Indian off, Booth fell over the 
seat, picked up the empty revolver and attempted to load it, 
but before he could bite off a cartridge Hallowell yelled, 
“ 1’m hit again, Cap.” 

“Where are you hit now?” asked the gallant Captain. 

“ In the hand,” replied Hallowell. 

Looking around, Booth saw that his right arm was ply- 

13 


134 


STORIES OF THE 


ing the whip to the now laggard mules, and sticking through 
the fleshy part of his thumb was an arrow, which was flop- 
ping up and down as his arm rose and fell in its ceaseless 
and evidently tireless efforts to keep up the speed of the al- 
most exhausted animals. 

“ Let me pull it out,” said Booth. 

“No, never mind,” replied Hallowell; “Can’t stop! 
Can’t stop ! ” and up and down went his arm, and flip-flap 
went the arrow with it, until finally it tore through the flesh 
and fell to the ground. 

Along they bowled, the Indians yelling and the occu- 
pants of the wagon defiantly answering them, while Booth 
was still making a desperate but vain effort to load the re- 
volver. In a few moments Hallowell shouted, “they are 
crowding the mules into the sunflowers ! ” 

Along the sides of the trail huge sunflowers had grown 
the previous summer and now their dry stalks stood as thick 
as a cane-brake, and if the wagon once got among them the 
mules could not keep up their gallop and would soon be 
compelled to stop. 

The Indians seemed to realize this fact, and one huge 
fellow kept riding beside the off mule and throwing his spear 
at him and then jerking it back with the thong, one end of 
which was fastened to his wrist, the other to the shaft of the 
spear. The mule on the side next to the Indian was jumping 
frantically and pushing the near mule from the road. 

Stepping out on the foot-board and holding on to a bow 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL , . 


135 


with one hand, Booth commenced kicking the mule vigorously; 
Hallowell, meanwhile, was pulling on one line, whipping and 
yelling, so together they forced the animals back into the 
trail and away they shot at the top of their speed. 

The Indian kept close to the mules, and Booth made 
several attempts to scare him by pointing his revolver at him, 
but he “ would not scare,” so he threw it at him, missed the 
Indian, but struck the pony just behind the rider’s leg, which 
started the latter off over the prairie, thus removing the im- 
mediate peril from that source. 

They were now absolutely without firearms — nothing 
left but their sabers and valises, and the Indians soon learn- 
ing that there were no more shots to be feared came closer 
and closer. 

In turn the two sabers were thrown at them as they came 
almost within striking distance , then followed the scabbards 
after the yelling fiends as they surrounded the wagon ; some 
rode immediately in front of the mules, impeding their prog- 
ress, with the most infernal noises and attempts to spear 
them (the Indians had evidently exhausted all their arrows), 
and the camp on the Walnut still a mile and a half away. 

There was nothing left for our luckless travelers to do 
but whip and kick the mules and yell, all of which they did 
most lustily, Hallowell sitting as immovable as the Sphinx, 
except his right arm, which, from the time he had started, had 
not ceased, and Booth kicking the poor animals and shouting 
in concert with their importunate foe. Looking casually 


136 


STORIES OF THE 


back over the seat Booth saw twelve, or fifteen Indians com- 
ing up behind with their spears all unstrung ready for action, 
and he felt that something must be done, and that right 
speedily, to divert them, for if these added their number 
already surrounding the wagon, the chances were they would 
succeed in forcing the mules from the trail, and the end of 
the tragedy soon come. 

Glancing around the bottom of the wagon, in his despair, 
for some kind of a weapon with which to resist them, Booth’s 
eye rested upon the valises containing the dress suits, and 
snatching his, threw it out, while their pursuers were yet some 
four or five rods behind. 

The Indians noticed these new tricks with a yell of ap- 
parent satisfaction, and as soon as they reached the valise 
they all dismounted, and one of them grabbed it by the two 
handles and attempted to open it; failing in this, another 
drew a long knife from under his blanket and, ripping up one 
side, thrust in his hand, and pulling out a sash began wind- 
ing it around his head (as a negro woman winds a bandana), 
letting the tassels hang down his back. 

While he was thus amusing himself, another had pulled 
out a dress coat, a third a pair of drawers, still another a 
shirt, all of which they individually proceeded to put on, 
meanwhile dancing around and yelling. 

Booth reported to Hallowell how the sacrifice of his valise 
had diverted the Indians, and said: “I’m going to throw 
out yours.” 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


137 


“All right,” he replied, “let her go, all we want is 
time. ” So out it went and shared the same fate as the other. 

As long as the Indians were busy helping themselves to 
the wardrobes contained in the two valises, they were not 
bothering our horses, and as Hallowed had said, “all they 
wanted was time.” 

But while the diversion was going on in the rear, the 
devils in front and on each side were still attempting to force 
the mules from the road by rushing at them and yelling, and 
brandishing their spears; none of them had as yet tried to 
kill them, evidently thinking they could murder the two 
officers and secure the animals alive — a prize too valuable for 
an Indian to lose. But as they were now drawing near the 
creek, 'on the opposite bank of which the camp was situated, 
and the chance of escape grew brighter, one miserable cut- 
throat of the band conceived the idea, apparently, of killing 
one of the mules, for he charged down on the wagon, rode 
close to one and discharging his arrow at him, struck him on 
the front leg severing a small artery, from which the blood 
spurted by jerks. The mules had no blinds on their bridles, 
and the one hurt, seeing the blood, it frightened him so that 
he gave a terrific jump and started off at a break-neck gait, 
dragging the other mule and the wagon after him, so all the 
occupants had to do now was to pound and kick the unin. 
jured one to make him keep up. 

This fresh spurt of speed had carried them away from the 
Indians, but Booth and Hallowed knew that the animals could 


138 


STORIES OF THE 


not continue it, and they became convinced that the Indians 
now meant to kill one or both of the mules in order to stop 
them. 

The lull caused by the mules outstripping the Indians 
gave our almost despairing heroes time to talk the matter over. 

Hallowell said he did not propose to be captured and 
taken to Medicine Lodge Creek, or some other place, and 
then butchered or burned at the leisure of the Indians. He 
said to Booth: “If they kill a mule and so stop us, let’s 
kick, strike, throw clods or anything, and compel them to 
kill us on the spot.” So they agreed, if worse came to the 
worst, to stand back to back and fight them off. 

This may seem overdrawn to many of our readers of to- 
day, but if they have ever seen the remains of men and women 
hacked and mutilated as the writer has, and realize as fully as 
the occupants of the little wagon did that such a fate awaited 
them in tj^e event of capture, they, too, would have courted 
death, sudden, certain and immediate, in preference to that 
other, more remote but just as sure, and far more terrible. 

During the discussion of the situation by Booth and 
Hallowell, the speed of the mules had slackened but little ; 
the arm of the latter still plied that effective lash, and they 
drew perceptibly nearer the camp, where there were men 
enough to rescue them if they could only be made aware of 
their situation, and as they caught the first glimpse of the 
tents of the officers and dug outs of the men hope sprang up 
within them, and life hanging, as it were, by a slender cord, 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


139 


seemed more precious than ever. In the hope of arousing 
and attracting the attention of some of the soldiers they com- 
menced yelling again at the top of their voices ; the mules 
were panting like a hound on the chase ; wherever the har- 
ness touched them it was as white with lather as the inside of 
a shaving cup, and they could not keep on their feet much 
longer. 

Would they hold out until the bridge was reached ? pro- 
vided they escaped the spears of the Indians. The whipping 
and kicking had little effect on them now ; they still continued 
in their gallop, but it was slower and more labored than be- 
fore, and as the Indians fell back to make fresh charges, the 
mules also slackened their gait, and it became almost impos- 
sible to accelerate their motion. 

Hallowed kept his whip going mechanically, and Booth 
continued his attention to the little near mule with his foot, 
but the worn out animal began to evince unmistakable signs 
of breaking down, and longing eyes were cast toward the 
camp, now so near. 

The Indians that had torn open the satchels had not 
come up, and did not seem inclined to further continue the 
fight, but there were still a sufficient number of the fiends 
pursuing to make it interesting, but they could not succeed 
in spearing the mules, as at each attempt the plucky little 
animals would jump sideways or forward and evade the im- 
pending blow. 


140 


STORIES OF THE 


One gigantic fellow followed them with a determination 
and valor worthy of a better cause — the others seeming now 
to have almost abandoned the idea of capturing either men or 
animals, but this persistent warrior, in all probability, was 
related to the “ young buck” Booth had killed, and was 
thirsting for revenge ; at any rate, he was loth to give up the 
chase, and followed the wagon to within a few rods of the 
bridge, long after the other Indians had fallen back entirely. 

The little log bridge was now reached; their pursuers 
had all retreated, but the valorous Hallowed kept the mules 
at the same galloping gait. This bridge was constructed of 
half-round logs, and of course was extremely rough, the wagon 
bounded up and down enough to shake the teeth out of one’s 
head, as the mules went flying over the rude structure. Booth 
called out to Hallowed, “ No need to drive so fast now, the 
Indians have ad left,” but he answered : 

“ I ain’t going to stop until I get across,” and down came 
the whip, on sped the mules, not breaking their gallop until 
they pulled up in front of Captain Conkey’s tent. Booth 
could not stand the fearful bounding of the wagon as it roll- 
ed across the bridge, so he crawled out behind and walked 
up to the quarters. 

The rattling of the wagon on the bridge was the first in- 
timation the command had of its returning. The sentinel on 
post had been walking his beat on the east side of the long 
stockade stable to keep out of the cold northwest wind, and 
had heard nothing of the yelling and talking until they struck 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


141 


the bridge, when he came around the end of the stable, saw 
the wagon and two or three of the Indians behind, fired his 
carbine and thus aroused the camp. 

The officers came running out of their tents, the men 
poured out of their dug-outs like a lot of ants, and the little 
wagon and its occupants were soon surrounded by their 
friends. Captain Conkey ordered the bugler tosound “boots 
and saddles,” and in less than ten minutes ninety troopers 
were mounted, and, with the Captain at their head, started 
after the Indians. 

Lieutenant Hallowell reached the line of < fficer’s tents 
before Booth, and, as the latter came up, was attempting to 
rise so as to get out, but each effort only resulted in his fall- 
ing back. It was thought at first his wounds were the cause, 
and when asked: “ What’s the matter; can’t you get out?” 
replied, “I don’t know. I can’t seem to get up only so far.” 
Some one stepped around the other side to assist him, when 
it was discovered that the skirt of his overcoat had worked 
outside the wagon-sheet and hung over the edge, and that 
three or four of the arrows fired by the Indians had struck 
the side of the wagon, and passing through the flap of his 
coat had pinned him down. Booth pulled the arrows out 
and helped him up ; he was pretty stiff from sitting in his 
cramped position so long, and his right arm dropped by his 
side as if struck with paralysis. 

While Hallo well walked into Captain Conkey’ s tent, assist- 
ed by the Adjutant and Quartermaster, some of the soldiers 


142 


STORIES OF THE 


unhitched the poor mules and led them to the corral. In 
examining the inside of the wagon twenty-two arrows were 
found lying in the bottom, innumerable holes through the 
sheet made by the passage of arrows, besides two from bul- 
lets, and the outside of the bed was scarred from one end to 
the other. 

Booth stood looking on while Hallowed's wounds were 
being dressed, when the Adjutant said : “What makes you 
shrug your shoulders so, Captain ?” Booth replied that he 
“did not know ; something causes it to smart.” The Adju- 
tant looked and said, “ Well, I should think it would smart; 
here is an arrow-head sticking into it,” and he tried to pull it 
out, but it would not come. Captain Goldsborough then at- 
tempted it, but was not more successful than the Adjutant. 
The Doctor told them to let it alone and he would take care 
of it after he had finished with Hallowed, which he soon did, 
and with his lance cut it out. The point of the arrow had 
struck the thick part of the shoulder-blade and made two 
complete turns, wrapping around the muscles which had to 
be cut apart before it could be withdrawn. 

Both of the principals in the terrible ride were soon at- 
tended to and made as comfortable as possible. Booth was 
not seriously hurt, Hallowed, however, had received two se- 
vere wounds, the arrow that lodged in his back had penetra- 
ted almost to his kidneys, and the wound in his thumb was 
very painful, caused not so much by the simple contact of 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


143 


the arrow as the tearing away of the muscle by the shaft while 
he was whipping his mules; his right arm, too, was swollen 
fearfully, and became stiff from the incessant use of it dur- 
ing his drive, and for nearly a month he required help in 
dressing and undressing. The mules, the veritable saviours of 
our heroes, were of little account after their memorable trip — 
they remained stiff and sore from the rough road and their 
continued forced speed. Booth and Hallowed went out the 
next morning to take a look at them as they hobbled around 
the corral, and from the bottom of their hearts wished them 
“ green fields and pastures new.” 

About half an hour after the little wagon had returned 
to Captain Conkey’s camp, a portion of the escort which had 
been sent out in advance in the morning, came galloping up 
and from them was learned the following in relation to their 
movements : 

They had started from camp early, as ordered the night 
before, and moved out on a good brisk walk toward For 
Larned. There were plenty of buffalo on the north side of 
the trail, and they saw no signs of Indians, except the ab- 
sence of buffalo near the river. They kept looking back, 
and slackened their gait somewhat after getting out four or 
five miles, to enable the wagon to catch up, and when they 
had proceeded about a mile beyond the point where the In- 
dians made their first attack, and the wagon had been turned 
toward the camp, one of the lieutenants said to the other 
that they were getting too far ahead of the Captain, and sug- 


144 


STORIES OF THE 


gested the propriety of halting, but Van Antwerp, who was 
in command, thought it better to leave a part of the compa- 
ny at that spot to wait ; accordingly a corporal and fifteen 
men were detailed to remain there until the wagon should 
arrive, and the balance moved on toward the Fort. 

The squad that had been detailed remained by the side 
of the trail for half an hour or so, when, becoming chilled, 
the corporal took them toward the river into a ravine that 
sheltered both men and horses from the cold northwest wind. 
There they remained sometime, when the corporal, becom- 
ing anxious, sent one of the men up to the trail to see if the 
wagon was coming, but he soon returned reporting nothing 
in sight. Waiting a few moments longer he sent another man 
out, who, on returning, reported that the wagon was coming 
and had an escort. This last man had seen them a long way 
off while the Indians were chasing them, and supposed they 
were an escorting party — which was correct in one sense, but 
not as he thought and reported. 

Remaining in the ravine until the corporal supposed the 
wagon had arrived nearly opposite, he moved out his squad 
on the trail, but seeing no wagon, and suspecting something 
had happened started his party toward the camp on Walnut 
Creek. They had proceeded but a short distance when one 
of the men cried out: “ Here’s an arrow !” Hardly were 
the words out of his mouth before a second said: “ Here’s 
another!” They knew now the reason the wagon had not 
come up, and the corporal gave the command to gallop, and 


OLDJANTA FE TRAIL, . 


145 


away they flew toward the camp. As they successively 
passed by the empty valises and the innumerable arrows on 
the trail, they fully realized the kindb>f an escort that had ac- 
companied the little wagon, when the soldier had reported, 
“they are coming, and have got an escort .” 

Captain Conkey’s command returned about midnight, 
die had seen but one Indian during the entire ride, and he 
was on the south side of the river in the sand hills. 

The next morning a scouting party of forty men, under 
command of a sergeant, was started out to scour the coun- 
try toward Cow Creek, northeast from Captain Conkey’s 
camp on the Walnut. 

When this party had proceeded four or five miles toward 
their objective point, a corporal reqested the sergeant to 
allow him and another man to go over to the “Upper Wal- 
nut Crossing,” to see if they could discover any signs of In- 
dians. 

The sergeant, to excuse himself afterward, stated that 
he supposed the men were simply going over the divide, 
instead of which they went on until they struck the upper 
trail and followed it down around the bend, almost to the 
creek. 

When fairly around the bend, and while riding carelessly 
along, up sprang about three hundred Indians, whooping and 
yelling! The two soldiers, of course, immediately whirled 
their horses and started down the creek toward the camp, 

hotly pursued by the howling savages. 

14 


146 


STORIES OF THE 


The corporal was an excellent horseman, and led out in 
their flight closely followed by the private, who was better 
mounted, but not as good a rider. They had gone but a 
short distance when the corporal heard the man exclaim : 

“ Don’t leave me ! Don’t leave me ! ” 

Looking around, he saw his comrade had lost ground, 
his horse was rearing and plunging, making little headway, 
while his rider was jerking and pulling on the bit (which was 
a curb of the severest kind), the corporal called to him and 
said : 

“ Let him out ! — let him out ! Don’t jerk him so ! ” 

The Indians were gaining on them rapidly, and soon 
the corporal heard the man cry out again : 

“Oh! don’t !” 

Turning his head to see what was the matter, a spear- 
point struck the visor of the corporal’s cap which knocked it 
off. He had his revolver in his right hand, and thrusting 
this at the Indian who had thrown the spear, and who was 
now side by side with him, he fired, shooting him through 
and through. 

No use delaying now, he could be of no assistance to 
his unfortunate comrade, so leaning forward and sinking the 
spurs into his horse, the corporal went flying down the val- 
ley, with the three hundred Indians in his wake, and making 
the prairie ring with their hideous yells. 

The officers in camp, including Captain Booth and Lieu- 
tenant Hallowell, were sitting in their tents when the sentinel 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


147 


on post fired his gun, upon which all rushed out to learn the 
cause of the alarm, for there was no random shooting in those 
days allowed around camp or garrison. Looking up the val- 
ley of the Walnut, they could see the lucky corporal, with 
his long hair streaming in the wind, his heels rapping his 
horse’s sides, as flecked with foam the noble animal was 
straining every muscle as he fairly flew over the brown sod of 
the winter prairie. The Indians were in hot pursuit, but 
could not gain an inch on the excited trooper as he tore 
along toward camp. 

In a moment a hundred men had snatched their carbines 
and run up the creek to the rescue, but the Indians, true to 
their instinct, turned tail before they came within gun-shot. 

The corporal slacked up, rode to the officers’ tents, and 
stopping long enough to give his version of the affair, then 
went to his quarters. 

Captain Conkey started a squad up the creek in a few 
moments accompanied by an ambulance. They were gone 
but a short time when they returned with the dead body of 
the unfortunate private. He had been shot with an arrow, 
the point of which was sticking out through his breast-bone ; 
his scalp had been torn completely off, and the lappels of his 
coat and the legs of his pantaloons carried away. He was 
buried the next day. The main detachment that had gone 
toward “Cow Creek” returned a little after dark without 
having seen an Indian. 

Evidently the savages that had given Booth and Hallowell 


148 


STORIES OF TEE 


such a terrible ride the day before, were a small war party de- 
tached from the large body that chased the corporal, and had 
gone down the Santa Fe trail to pick up any straggler that 
might be so unfortunate as to be passing at the time — and 
the “little wagon ” happened to contain those “ unfortunates.” 

If Booth and Hallowell had known of the action of their 
escort, it would have been better for them, perhaps, if they 
had continued right ahead instead of turning, as they could 
not have been more than a mile from the ravine where the 
corporal had taken his men when the Indians first attacked 
them. Then, again, as the Indians probably knew just where 
the escort was, they might have fought still more desperately, 
in consideration of less time to accomplish their work. At 
any rate, our two heroes escaped with comparatively slight 
injury, and could not have done better if they had taken the 
other course, though the agony would not have been so pro- 
longed. After remaining at the camp on the Walnut for a 
day or two to recruit their shattered nerves, Booth and Hal- 
lowed returned to Fort Riley, and the latter did “see his 
Lizzie again” 

The occurrence narrated in this sketch is but one in a 
thousand ; hundreds terminated more tragically, as the name- 
less graves that dot the prairie along the Santa Fe trail will 
most assuredly prove. 

Many are now living in various parts of the State who 
were prominent actors in the stirring scenes and “hair- 
breadth escapes” of those perilous days of the “Border.” 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


149 


Some, too, have risen to positions of honor and trust, while 
many have passed over “the dark river ” — too soon to have 
witnessed the grand Empire that has grown up on the Great 
Plains, where they, the hardy pioneers of our marvelous 
civilization, laid down their lives, a sacrifice demanded by 
the inevitable and rigorous law of progress in the genesis of 
grand states. 

Lieut. Hallowed, whose bravery and heroism has been 
but imperfectly portrayed in this “o’er true” sketch, after 
the terrible ride, succumbed to the dreadful scourge that 
swept over Kansas in 1867. He was a sub-contractor on the 
Pacific Railroad, then in process of construction, when that 
fell disease, cholera, entered his camp, in one of the beauti- 
ful little valleys tributary to the Smoky Hill, and while ad- 
ministering to the comfort of his fellow laborers, was himself 
stricken down. There on the primitive prairie his grave was 
dug, and all that remained of one of the truest and bravest 
of men was gently laid to rest with the great circle of the 
heavens for his monument, and the recurring blossoms of 
spring time for his epitaph. 

Captain Conkey, after faithfully serving his country, 
retired to the peaceful pursuits of civil life, together with the 
great army of volunteers, and in the tumult of subsequent 
events, has been lost sight of. 

Captain Booth still lives; has served the State in various 
capacities, and at present holds the responsible position of 
“ Receiver of the Public Moneys ” in the U. S. Land Office, 
at Larned. 


150 


STORIES OF THE 


y 


THE MASSACRE AT BABB’S RANCH, 

AND A KANSAS WOMAN’S REMARKABLE RIDE. 

On the Colorado river, near the source of that stream 
in Western Texas, some twelve years ago, Babb’s Ranch — a 
snug little jacal cabin — marked the extreme limit of frontier 
civilization, the march of which so wonderful in its strides 
toward the mountains since that date, was then far east of 
the ninety-eighth meridian, and the prairies of the Lone 
Star State, and our own beloved Kansas, a wilderness, into 
whose magic area the footsteps of the hardy pioneer had not 
yet ventured. Babb loved the solitude of the grand old 
motionless ocean around him, and was supremely happy in 
the society of his little family, consisting of wife, three chil- 
dren, and Mrs. L (the heroine of this sketch) a relation 

by marriage, who had recently become widowed, and who 
now was making her home temporarily with the Babbs. 

The cabin was prettily situated near the bank of a small 
tributary to the Colorado, and was partially surrounded by 
thick clumps of elders, plum bushes, and other indigenous 
shrubs. It contained only one room which served as parlor, 
chamber, kitchen, and dining-room, but notwithstanding the 
multifarious uses to which it was put,, was kept scrupulously 
clean through the constant exertions of the female portion of 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


151 


its inmates. A rude ceiling of small saplings covered with 
mesquit grass formed the floor of a sort of garret which was 
used as a general “ stow-away,” access to which was by- 
means of a rude ladder that rested against the wall of the 
room below. 

Early in June, 1867, Babb found it necessary to take 
the trail for one of the little Mexican towns near the foot of 
the mountains, and was forced to leave the women and chil- 
dren to take care of themselves. This was done with a 
sense of perfect security, however, for the Indians had appar- 
ently entertained friendly relations, and Babb placing — as 
many a poor frontiersman has before and since — too much 
confidence in the humanity of the Comanches, left home 
with a light heart, and a flattering belief that his family, at 
least, were safe from the murderous knife of the savage. Vain 
hope ! In less than a week after Babb’s absence on a mag- 
nificent morning in that beautiful June, Mrs. Babb espied 
several horsemen coming over the ridge about a quarter of a 
mile away, and as they approached saw with sinking heart 
they were Comanches, bedecked in all the hideousness of 
their war-paint. Two of her little ones were innocently 
playing down in the creek bottom a hundred yards or so 
from the house, and the first impulse of the mother’s heart, 
of course, was the safety of her darlings. So she ran out, 
called them with all the love of her soul to come to the house 
for their lives. She intended to get them inside, bar up the 


152 


STORIES OF THE 


door and stand a siege, the jacal walls of the building being 
almost proof against the bullets of the inferior guns in the 
hands of the Indians of those days. But the children either 
not hearing her, or recognizing the fact that it was too late, 
hid in the bushes, and down swept the savages like the 
wind. In a moment they had found the two little children 
out of doors, tied them together with their lariats, and leav- 
ing them on the ground, rushed into the house, the door of 
which had not even been closed, and snatching the baby 
from ids mother’s arms who instinctively essayed to save it, 
dashed its brains out on the floor. Two of the savages, 
enraged perhaps, at Mrs. Babb’s resistance, immediately 
jerked the unfortunate woman across the table and inhu- 
manly cut her throat from ear to ear, putting an end to her 
life and grief at once. 

Mrs. L , who had upon the first dash of the Indians 

toward the house, rushed up the ladder into the garret, see- 
ing the butchery, gave a shriek of horror, upon which the 
savages dragged her down and — strange as it may seem — 
did not kill her, but tying her hand and foot, threw her 
with the two children across their saddles and galloped off 
to the North. 

General Marcy, who gives a description of this woman’s 
fate in one of his Border Reminiscences, says : 

“ In accordance with their usual practice, they traveled 
as rapidly as their horses could carry them for several days 
and nights, only making occasional short halts to graze their 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


153 


animals and get a little sleep themselves, so that the unfor- 
tunate captives necessarily suffered indescribable tortures 
from harsh treatment, fatigue, and want of sleep and food. 
Yet they were forced by the savages to continue day after 
day, and night after night for many weary miles toward the 
“ Staked Plain,” crossing en route the Brazos, Wichita, Red, 
Canadian, and Arkansas rivers, several of which were at 
swimming stages. 

The warriors guarded their captives very closely until 
they had gone so great a distance from the settlements that 
they imagined it impossible for them to make their escape 
and find their way home, when they relaxed their vigilance 
slightly, and they were permitted to walk about a little within 
short limits from the bivouac ; but they were given to under- 
stand by unmistakable pantomime that death would be the 
certain penalty of the first attempt to escape. In spite of 

this Mrs. L , who possessed a firmness of purpose truly 

heroic, resolved to seize the first favorable opportunity to get 
away ; and with this resolution in view, she carfully observed 
the relative speed and powers of endurance of the different 
horses in the party, and noted the manner in which they 
were grazed, guarded, and caught. Upon a dark night after 
a long and fatiguing day’s ride, and while the Indians were 
sleeping soundly, she noiselessly and cautiously crawled 
away from the bed of her young companions who were also 
buried in profound slumber, and going to the pasture ground 
of the horses, selected the best, leaped upon his back a la 


154 


STORIES OF THE 


«arcon , with only a lariat on his neck, and, without saddle 
or bridle started off quietly at a slow walk, in the direction 
of the North Star, believing this course would lead her to 
the nearest white inhabitants. 

As soon as she had gone out of hearing of the camp, 
without detection, or pursuit, she accelerated the speed of 
her horse into a trot, then into a gallop, and urged him 
rapidly forward during the entire night. 

At dawn on the following morning she rose at the crest 
of an eminence overlooking a vast area of bold prairie 
country, where, for the first time since leaving the Indians 
she halted, and turning round, tremblingly casta rapid glance 
to the rear, expecting to see the savage blood-hounds in 
eager pursuit upon her track ; but, to her great joy and relief 
not a single indication of a living object could be discerned 
within the extended scope of her vision. 

She breathed more freely now, but still did not feel safe 
from pursuit ; and the total absence of all knowledge of her 
whereabouts in the midst of the wide expanse of dreary prai- 
rie around her, with the uncertainty of ever again looking 
upon a friendly face, caused her to realize most vividly her 
own weakness and entire dependence upon the Almighty, 
and she raised her thoughts to Heaven in fervent supplica- 
tion. 

The majesty and sublimity of the stupendous works of 
the great Author and Creator of the Universe, when contrast- 
ed with the insignificance of the powers and achievements of 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL, 


155 


a vivified atom of earth modeled into human form, are prob- 
ably under no circumstances more strikingly exhibited and 
felt than when one becomes bewildered and lost, in the midst 
of the almost limitless amplitude of our great North American 
prairies, where not a single foot-mark or other trace of man’s 
presence or action can be discovered, and where the solitary 
wanderer is startled even at the sound of his own voice. 

The sensation of loneliness and despondency results from 
the appalling consciousness of being really and absolutely lost, 
with the realization of the fact that but two or three of the 
innumerable different points of direction embraced within the 
circle of the horizon will serve to extricate the bewildered vic- 
tim from the awful doom of death by starvation, and in entire 
ignorance as to which of these particular directions should be 
followed, without a single road, trail, tree, bush, or other land- 
mark to guide or direct — the effects upon the imagination of 
this formidable array of disheartening circumstances can be 
fully appreciated only by those who have been personally sub- 
jected to their influence. 

A faint perception of the intensity of the mental torture 
experienced by these unfortunate victims may, however, be 
conjectured from the fact that their senses at such junctures 
become so completely absorbed and overpowered by the 
cheerless prospect before them that they oftentimes wander 
about in a state of temporary lunacy, without the power of 
exercising the slightest volition of the reasoning faculties. 

Such instances of mental alienation, as strange as it may 


156 


STORIES OF THE 


appear, are by no means uncommon, and I have myself seen 
several persons whose minds for days were greatly deflected 
from the channels of sanity.* 

The inflexible spirit of the heroine of this narrative did 
not, however, succumb in the least to the imminent perils of 
the situation in which she found herself, and her purposes 
were carried out with a determination as resolute and unflinch- 
ing as those of the Israelites in their protracted pilgrimage 
through the wilderness, and without the guidance of the pil- 
lars of fire and cloud. 

The aid of the sun and the broad leaves of the pilot 
plant by day, with the light of Polaris by night, enabled her 
to pursue her undeviating course to the north, with as much 
accuracy as if she had been guided by the magnetic needle. 

She continued to urge forward the generous steed she 
bestrode, who, in obedience to the will of his rider, coursed 
swiftly on hour after hour, during the greater part of the day, 
without the least apparent labor or exhaustion. 

It was a contest for life and liberty that she had under- 
taken, a struggle in which she resolved to triumph or perish 
in the effort; and still the brave hearted woman pushed on, 
until at length her horse began to show signs of exhaustion, 
and as the shadows of evening began to appear, he became 
so jaded that it was difficult to coax or force him into a trot, 
and the poor woman began to entertain serious apprehension 

"Witness the woman found by General Custer in 1868, on the stream in Ford 
county, north of Spearville— named “White Women’s Fork,” in commemoration of 
the fact. H. I. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


157 


that he might soon give out altogether and leave her on foot. 

At this time she was herself so much wearied and in 
want of sleep that she would have given all she possessed to 
have been allowed to dismount and rest ; but unfortunately 
for her, those practical quadrupeds of the plains, the wolves, 
advised by their carniverous instincts that she and her exhaust- 
ed horse might soon fall an easy sacrifice to their voracious 
appetites, followed upon her track and came howling in great 
numbers around her, so that she dared not set her feet upon 
the ground ; and her only alternative was to continue urging 
the poor beast to struggle forward during the dark and gloomy 
hours of the long night, until at length she became so exhaust- 
ed that it was only with the utmost effort of her iron will that 
she was able to preserve her balance upon the horse. 

Meantime the ravenous pack of wolves, becoming more 
and more emboldened and impatient as the speed of her horse 
relaxed, approached nearer and nearer until with their eyes 
flashing fire, they snapped savagely at the head of the terri- 
fied animal, while at the same time they kept up their hideous 
concert like the howlings of ten thousand fiends from the in- 
fernal regions. 

Every element in her nature was at this fearful juncture 
taxed to its greatest tension, and impelled her to concentrate 
the force of all her remaining energies in urging and coaxing 
forward the wearied horse, until finally, he was barely able to 
reel and struggle along at a slow walk ; and when she was 
about to give up in despair, expecting every moment that the 
15 


158 


STORIES OF THE 


animal would drop down dead under her, the welcome light 
of day dawned in the eastern horizon, and imparted a more 
cheerful and encouraging influence over her, and on looking 
around, to her great joy there were no wolves in sight. She 
now for the first time in about thirty-six hours dismounted, 
and knowing that sleep would soon overpower her, and that 
the horse, if not secured, might escape, or wander away, and 
there being no tree or other object to which he could be fast- 
ened, she with great presence of mind tied one end of the 
long lariat to his neck, and with the other end around her 
waist dropped down on the ground into a deep sleep, while 
the famished horse cropped the herbage around her. She was 
unconscious as to the duration of her slumber ; but it must 
have been protracted to have compensated the demands of 
nature for the exhaustion induced by her prodigious ride. The 
sleep was sweet, and she dreamed of happiness and home, 
losing all consciousness of her actual situation until she was 
startled and aroused by the pattering sound of horses feet 
beating the earth on every side. Springing to her feet in the 
greatest possible alarm, she found herself surrounded by a 
large band of savages, who commenced dancing around, 
flaunting their war-clubs in frightful proximity to her head, 
while giving utterance to the most diabolical shouts of exul- 
tation. 

Her exceedingly weak and debilitated condition at this 
time, resulting from long abstinence from food and unprece- 
dented mental and physical trials, had wrought upon her 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


159 


nervous system to such an extent that she imagined the mo- 
ment of her death had arrived, and fainted. The Indians then 
approached, and after she had recovered, placed her again 
upon a horse and rode away with her to their camp, which 
fortunately was not far distant. They then turned their pris- 
oner over to the squaws, who gave her food and put her to 
bed; but it was several days before she was sufficiently able 
to walk about the camp. She learned that her last captor 
belonged to “Lone Wolf’s band of Kiowas.” 

Although these Indians treated her with more kindness 
than the Comanches had done, yet she did not for an instant 
entertain the thought that they would voluntarily release her 
from bondage ; neither had she the remotest conception of 
her present locality, or of the direction or distance to any 
white settlement, but she had no idea of remaining a slave for 
life, and resolved to make her escape the first practicable 
moment that offered. 

* During the time she remained with these Indians a party 
of men went away to the north, and were absent six days, 
bringing with them on their return, some ears of green corn. 
She knew the prairie tribes never planted a seed of any descrip- 
tion, and was, therefore, confident it was not over three days 
journey distant to a white settlement, which the party had 
evidently visited. * 

* This corn the Indians evidently found at the wood camp of A1 Boyd on the 
Dry Walnut north of Larned. Mr. Boyd informs me that in the year referred to 
quite a volunteer crop of that cereal grew up in his various camps, and that the 
harvest, such as it was, was gathered, in all probability by the Indians. — H. I. 


160 


STORIES OF THE 


This was an encouraging intelligence to her, and she 
waited the time anxiously when she could depart. 

Late one night, after all had become hushed throughout 
the camp, and everything seemed auspicious for the consum- 
mation of her purposes, she stole carefully away from her 
bed, crept softly out to the herd of horses, and, after having 
caught and subdued one, was in the act of mounting, when 
a number of dogs rushed out after her, and by their barking 
created such a disturbance among the Indians that she was 
forced for the time to forego her designs and crawl hastily 
back to her lodge. On a subsequent occasion, however, 
fortune favored her. She secured an excellent horse, and 
rode away in the direction from which she had observed the 
Indians returning to camp with the green corn. Under the 
certain guidance of the sun and stars, she was enabled to 
pursue a direct bearing ; and after three consecutive days of 
rapid riding, anxiety and fatigue, she arrived upon the border 
of a large river, flowing directly across her track. Che 
stream was swollen to the tops of its banks ; the water cours- 
ed like a torrent through its channels, and she feared the 
horse might not be able to stem the powerful current ; but after 
surmounting the numerous perils and hardships she had 
already encountered, the dauntless woman was not to be 
turned aside from her inflexible purpose by this formidable 
obstacle, and she instantly dashed on into the foaming tor- 
rent, and by dint of encouragement and punishment, forced 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


161 


her horse through the stream, and landed safely upon the 
opposite bank. 

After giving her horse a few moments rest, she again set 
forward, and had ridden but a short distance when, to he r 
inexpressable astonishment and delight, she struck a broad 
and well beaten wagon-road, the first and only evidence or 
trace of civilization she had seen since leaving her home in 
Texas. 

Up to this joyful moment the indomitable inflexibility of 
purpose of our heroine had not faltered for an instant; neither 
had she suffered the slightest despondency, in view of the 
terrible array of disheartening circumstances that had contin- 
ually confroiitered her ; but when she realized the hopeful 
prospect before her of a speedy escape from the reach of her 
barbarous captives, and a reasonable certainty of an early 
reunion with people of her own sympathizing race, the fem- 
nine elements of her nature preponderated, her stoical forti- 
tude yielded to the delightful anticipation ; and her joy was 
intensified and confirmed by seeing a long train of wagons 
approaching over the distant prairie. The spectacle over- 
whelmed her with ecstacy, and she wept tears of joy while 
offering up sincere and heart-felt thanks to the Almighty for 
delivering her from a bondage more dreadful than death. 

She then proceeded on until she met the wagons in 
charge of Robert Bent, whom she entreated to give her food 
instantly, as she was in a state bordering upon absolute starva- 
tion. He kindly complied with her request, and after the 


162 


STORIES OF THE 


cravings of her appetite had been satisfied, she desired to 
gratify his curiosity, which had been not a little excited at the 
unusual exhibition of a beautiful white woman appearing 
alone in that wild country, riding upon an Indian saddle with 
no covering upon her head save her long natural hair, which 
was hanging loosely and disorderly about her shoulders, while 
her attire was sadly in need of repairs. According he inquir- 
ed of her where she lived, to which she replied: “In 
Texas.” Mr. Bent gave an incredulous shake of his head at 
this response, remarking at the same time that he thought 
she must be mistaken, as Texas happened to be situated some 
five or six hundred miles distant. She reiterated the assur- 
ance of her statement, and described to him briefly the leading 
incidents attending her capture and mistake ; but still he was 
inclined to doubt, believing she might possible be insane. 

He informed her that the river she had just crossed was 
the Arkansas, and that she was then on the old Santa Fe trail 
about fifteen miles west of Big Turkey Creek,* where she 
would find the most remote frontier house. Then, after 
thanking him for his kindness, she bade him adieu, and start- 
ed away in a walk toward the settlements, while he continued 
his journey in the opposite direction; but he still followed the 
exit of the remarkable apparition with his eyes, until she was 
several hundred yards distant, when he observed her throw 
one of her feet over the horse’s back a la femme sauvage , and 
casting a graceful kiss toward him with her hand, she set off 

* The point where Bent met Mrs. L , is on the old trail, nearly on the line 

between Rice and McPherson counties. — H. I. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


163 


on a gallop, and soon disappeared over the crest of the prairie. 

On the arrival of Bent at Fort Zara, he called upon the 
Indian -agent and reported the circumstance of meeting Mrs. 

L , and by a singular coincidence, it so happened, that 

the agent was at the very time holding a council with the 
Chief of the identical band of Indians from whom she had 
last escaped, and they had just given a full history of the en- 
tire affair, which seemed so improbable to the agent that he 
was not disposed to credit it until he received its confirmation 
from Bent. He at once dispatched a man to follow the 
woman and conduct her to Council Grove, where she was 
kindly received, and remained for some time, hoping through 
the agents to gain intelligence of the two children she had left 
with the Comanches, as she had desired to take them back 
to their father in Texas; but no tidings were gained. Mean- 
time she made the acquaintance of a man at Council Grove 
whom, it is stated, she married, and for aught that is known, 
may be there yet. Wherever she is I wish her all possible 
happiness. 

It will be readily seen by reference to the map of the 

country over which Mrs. L passed, that the distance 

from the place of her capture to the point where she struck 
the Arkansas river, could not have been short of five hundred 
miles, and the greatest part of this desert plain she traveled 
alone, without seeing a single civilized human habitation. 

If any other woman, in ancient or modern times, has 
performed as signal, and equestrian achievement as this, I 
have yet to learn it. 


164 


STORIES OF THE 


THE SCOUTS’ LAST RIDE. 

AN INCIDENT IN THE INDIAN WAR OF 1 868-9. 

The stranger who to-day in a palace-car surrounded by 
all the luxuriance of modern American travel, commences 
his “ tour of the prairies” at the Missouri River, enters classic 
ground the moment he leaves the muddy flood of that stream 
behind him. He sees a large city at the very portals of the 
“ New West” he has journeyed so far to explore, and all the 
bustle and energy of the grand civilization he sought refuge 
from, has followed him even here — more than a thousand 
miles from his eastern home. 

Gradually as he is whirled along the “ Iron Trail” the 
woods lessen, he catches views of beautiful intervales, a bright 
little stream flashes and foams in the sunlight as the trees 
open, and soon he emerges on the broad sea of prairie shut 
in only by the great circle of the heavens. 

Dotting this motionless ocean everywhere, like whitened 
sails, are peaceful little homes —true argosies ventured by the 
sturdy and hopeful people who have fought their way to that 
tranquillity which surrounds the beautiful picture. 

But it was not always so ; and however strange it may 
seem to our traveler, the rare landscape he looks upon from 
his polished car window has its tale of blood and dark despair, 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


165 


for little more than a decade ago — during the summer and 
autumn of 1868, three powerful tribes — the Cheyennes, Kio- 
was, and Arrapahoes waged a relentless and brutal warfare 
upon the frontier of Kansas and Nebraska, and then another 
picture was presented, the story of which has gone down to 
history side by side, with that other terrible one of Wyoming. 

Beautiful valleys, and limpid streams, whose margins 
were fringed with a dense growth of timber, under the shadows 
of which the clear water rippled along rythmically toward the 
“ Great River ; ” fields rich in their golden cereals, and primi. 
tive homes peeping picturesquely out of the dark foliage of 
their surroundings, marked the fair region, whose peaceful 
inhabitants were inhumanly butchered during the raids of 
these Indians in their devastation of the whole line of settle- 
ments from the Republican to the Arkansas. 

Men, women, and children were slaughtered with a piti- 
lessness possible only to Indians, their simple little dwellings 
consigned to the torch, and young girls alone saved from the 
keen edge of the scalping knife for the horrors of a captivity 
infinitely greater than death. 

The dark sky was illuminated night after night by the 
glare of burning ranches, and the red glow on the horizon, as 
the flames died out, carried the terrible tidings to the pallid 
watchers along the border, that the savages were circling 
nearer to them in their fiendish travels. 

Often young mothers had only time to snatch their little 
ones from the cradle and dragging an older child by the hand, 


166 


STORIES OF THE 


hurriedly hide in the thick brush on the creek bottoms, while 
the husband jumping on his horse, alarmed the neighbors, 
who returning with him, sometimes were successful in driving 
off the savages. 

But this was of rare occurrence, for families so widely 
separated as they were in that new country could afford but 
little mutual protection, their houses being frequently twenty 
miles apart, and before the news could spread or the people 
gather in some strong log cabin for defense, the Indians 
came down upon them like the north wind, murdering and 
destroying whole settlements in a single summer afternoon. 

That lovely belt of country between the two rivers was 
consequently abandoned, and the few settlers who escaped 
the fury of the Indians were driven into the military posts of 
Harker and Riley, houseless, homeless and starving. There 
they were kindly sheltered, clothed and fed by the Govern- 
ment until it was safe for them to return to their abandoned 
claims and commence the settlement of the country over. 

They then found nothing, of course, but the bare land. 
A little mound of ashes alone indicated the spot where their 
homes had stood ; their fences and cattle were all gone, some- 
times wife and children, too — tortured and then murdered or 
miserable slaves in the hands of the Indians. 

But with a determination to surmount obstacles that any 
other than our noble army of pioneers would shrink from, 
they took up the axe again and cut their way to the peace 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


167 


and thrift that has gradually increased to what it is to-day in 
that region. 

The condition of affairs on that verge of civilization in 
Kansas during the years referred to, was much more terrible 
than the mere outline above attempted. The horrible truths 
and outrageous brutalities inflicted can never appear in print 
to shock the sensibilities of a refined people, and the very 
impossibility of this fact has done much toward creating a 
false' sympathy for the Indians, who, if their diabolical acts 
were known universally, as they are known to the compara- 
tive few, [would be declared beyond the pale of the slightest 
mercy or leniency in the swift punishment that would be 
sure to follow. 

In the middle of September 1868, General Sheridan as- 
sumed immediate command of the Department of the Mis- 
souri, which included in its geographical area the whole prairie 
region west of the Missouri river and a portion of the moun- 
tains. The famous Seventh Cavalry under General Custer 
was scattered along the Smoky Hill at Hays, Harker and 
Wallace, and the Fifth and Third Infantry at the various 
military posts in the Arkansas Valley and at Fort Leaven- 
worth. 

These were the only available troops in this section at 
the disposal of the commanding General when he determined 
to organize a winter campaign against the hostile tribes. 

The idea of a successful campaign against the Indians of 
the Great Plains in mid-winter was something entirely novel 


168 


STORIES OF THE 


in border warfare, and had its origin in the wonderful percep- 
tion and power to overcome military difficulties inherent in 
General Sheridan. 

Heretofore it had been considered beyond the limit of 
possibilities to make a vigorous war upon the tribes in that 
season on account of the numberless apparently insuperable 
obstacles that constantly interpose themselves — the fickle 
changes in climate — scarcity of grass in some localities for 
the animals, the obstruction of partly frozen streams, and a 
thousand and one counteracting influences constantly at work 
in the desolateness of these remote plains. 

The undertaking was regarded by many old officers who 
had been stationed on the frontier for years as purely vision- 
ary, and by plainsmen generally, as experimental at least, 
with the probabilities of success strongly on the side of the 
negative. 

In almost every instance where expeditions had been 
sent against the Indians in the spring and summer — the very 
season which they themselves select for the operation of their 
implacable hatred of the whites — the result had almost invari- 
ably been disastrous to the army, or the effect upon the In- 
dian unsubstantial. 

General Sheridan (purposing to profit by the example of 
General Hancock, his immediate predecessor in the command 
of the Department, whose expensive and gorgeous campaign 
of the summer before — gorgeous in its pomp and circum- 
stance — had been futile of results) perceived at once that a 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL, 


169 


termination of the warfare raging along the border every re- 
curring season could effectually be reached only by a severe 
and decisive blow to the savages in their winter quarters. 

To that end, therefore, immediately after the massacre 
on Spillman Creek early in September, he removed his head- 
quarters from Fort Leavenworth to Fort Harker, on the 
Smoky Hill, and from thence to Fort Hays, temporarily, 
until the expedition was organized, which he then command- 
ed in person. 

The country knows how completely he succeeded in re- 
moving the hostile tribes to their allotted reservations, and 
how effectually he prevented any further trouble with the In- 
dians in this portion of Kansas, bringing a peace to the re- 
gion under discussion that will never again be broken by their 
sanguinary incursions. 

Previous to the organization of the winter expedition — 
about the first of September — General Alfred Sully, who 
commanded the Military District of the Upper Arkansas, 
with eight companies of the Seventh Cavalry, and five com- 
panies of Infantry, left Fort Dodge on a hurried excursion 
against the Kiowas, Arrapahoes and Cheyennes, who had 
been committing depredations in small parties along the bor- 
der during the summer. 

The command marched in a general southeasterly direc- 
tion from the Arkansas, and reached the “sand hills” of the 
Beaver and Wolf, by a circuitous route on the fifth day. 

When nearly through that comparatively barren region, 

16 


170 


STORIES OF THE 


they were attacked by about eight hundred of the allied tribes 
under the lead of the famous Kiowa chief Satanta. 

A running fight was kept up with the savages, on the 
first day in which two of the cavalrymen were killed and one 
wounded. 

The Indians gradually increased their force by new gath- 
erings until they mustered over two thousand warriors — and 
the expedition was forced to retreat toward the Arkansas. 

For four days and nights the Indians hovered around 
the command, and by the time it had reached the mouth of 
Mulberry Creek — twelve miles from Ft. Dodge — there are 
not one thousand rounds of ammunition left. 

The incessent charges of the now infuriated savages 
compelled the troops to use this small amount held in reserve, 
and they found themselves almost at the mercy of the enemy 
when they reached the river. 

But before they were absolutely defenseless, Col. M. W. 
Keogh, of the seventh cavalry (afterward killed at the 
“ Rose Bud ” in Custer’s chivalrous but disastrous battle with 
Sitting Bull), had sent a trusty messenger in the night to Ft. 
Dodge for a supply of cartridges to meet them at the creek, 
which fortunately reached there in time to save that point 
from being a literal “Last Ditch.” 

The Indians in that little but exciting encounter, would 
ride up boldly toward the squadrons of cavalry, discharge 
the shots from their revolvers, and then in their rage throw 
them at the skirmishers on the flankers of the supply train, 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


171 


while the latter, nearly all of whom were out of ammunition, 
were compelled to sit quietly in their saddles, idle spectators 
of the extraordinary scene. 

Many of the Indians were killed on their ponies, how- 
ever, by those who were fortunate enough to have a few 
rounds left, but none were captured, as the Indians had taken 
their usual precaution to tie themselves to their animals, and 
as soon as dead were dragged away by them. 

This essay of General Sully, to feel as it were the dis- 
position of the Indians, determined the question of a sweep- 
ing war, and General Sheridan, as we have stated, inaugu- 
rated immediate measures to make it decisive and effectual. 

Removing his headquarters to Ft. Hays, on the Smoky 
Hill route, the organization of the winter expedition was im- 
mediately commenced. 

All the available troops in the department previously 
referred to, together with the fifth cavalry, which had been 
ordered to report to General Sheridan for this special duty ; 
picked warriors from among the friendly Osages and Pawnees, 
and the services of celebrated frontiersmen were called into 
service. 

Desperate duties were required of the famous frontiers- 
men employed, who, under the general term of “ scouts, ” 
were expected to carry dispatches, hang on the trail of the 
Indians, and in the capacity of couriers, keep open communi- 
cation between Ft. Dodge and the troops operating in that 
memorable campaign of 1868-9. 


172 


STORIES OF THE 


These “scouts” were invariably picked men. They 
were selected with the greatest of care, with special reference 
to their knowledge of the Indian character and perfect famil- 
iarity with the localities of the prosposed field of action, and 
in the latter capacity guided the troops through the unbroken 
wilderness of the Central Plains. 

Many of these men had passed eventful lives from boy- 
hood among the Kiowas, Arrapahoes and Cheyennes. Some 
had married and been adopted by these tribes, and not only 
understood their language perfectly, but had mastered all the 
original astuteness and strategy of the Indians themselves. 

Nearly all of them were identified with the early strug- 
gles of the borders, and they rightfully belong to that roll of 
heroes in the unwritten record of those troublous times in 
Kansas’ history, which has never yet graced the fair pages of 
our popular magazines, but who may one of these days figure 
conspicuously in the annals of the country, when all the 
facts in its memoirs are collected by another and unpreju- 
diced generation. 

But they have another history too, which belongs to the 
tribes among whom they lived so long, that will never die 
while the Indian remains, though its narration i§ given only 
in rude legendary form, to the dusky listeners wrapped in 
their buffalo robes sitting around the magic circle of the 
“medicine lodge.” 

Some of these men still live, and some are quietly rest 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


173 


ing* under the silvery cottonwoods and willows of the far off 
plains. 

The march of civilization over the. territory in which 
their remarkable lives were passed is rapidly obliterating all 
trace of their simple sepulchres, and absorbingtheir memory 
in the uncertain light of mere tradition. 

The duties demanded of the “scouts” during the cam- 
paign were fraught with danger, desperate venture, and ter- 
rible chances for life oftentimes, yet they received no greater 
reward than was given to other civilians employed. 

How nobly these brave men fulfilled their mission, the 
fight of Gen. Geo. A. Forsyth on the Arrickaree Fork of the 
Republican (one of the most desperate chapters in Indian 
warfare, taken altogether, in the history of the continent), 
General Custer’s battle of the Washita, and the grassy 
mounds in the little graveyard at Ft. Dodge on the treeless 
banks of the Arkansas where those lie who went out fear- 
essly to their death — all testify. 

How two of these “scouts” laid down their lives in a 
ride of a hundred miles through a gauntlet of determined 
savages, is the subject of this sketch. 

To those who look upon everything in this world with 
only a utilitarian faith, and measure all operations of human 
circumstances by the scale of dollars and cents, it undoubt- 
edly seems strange that a remuneration was not demanded and 
given to these men, corresponding with the awful risks incur- 
red But there is an indescribable and unconquerable infat- 


174 


STORIES OF THE 


uation attending a life in the desolateness of the remote 
plains, and a companionship of constant danger which lends 
a charm that can never be perfectly understood by the deni- 
zens of our crowded cities in the East, that far out-weighs 
any tangible reward that could be offered. 

Neither the love of gold then, nor the hope of popularity 
— those two altars upon which so many men sacrifice them- 
selves in the teeming haunts of business — tempted them to 
the deeds which have made them famous. Such men whose 
story is always full of interest, seek danger for the simple 
charm of it, and that alone is the secret of their eventful lives. 

Five hundred six-mule army wagons, with its comple- 
ment of more than as many teamsters, wagon-masters, cooks 
and herders, composed the transportation train that constant- 
ly traveled between the depot at Fort Dodge on the Arkansas, 
and the base of operations at the camp on Beaver river, (now 
known as Camp Supply,) and one of the principal posts of 
observation in the Indian Territory, where the Kiowa and 
Cheyenne reservations are located. 

Over the broad trail marked by the passage of the long 
train of wagons, the Indians hovered in small parties all win- 
ter, and through this line of watchful savages, the courier 
scout’s perilous journey had to be effected. 

On their dreary route of over one hundred miles, with 
no place of refuge Between the camp and Fort Dodge, it was 
literally, at times, a ride for life. 

Two of these “scouts” usually traveled together under 
considerations of both companionship and safety, for it is pos- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


175 


sible that two determined men well acquainted with the 
peculiar tactics of the Indians, may prove a match for twenty, 
but difficult under equal circumstances for one to get away 
from five. 

The most exposed portions of the trail were ridden over 
at night, while in the daytime, the “scouts” secreted them- 
selves in some rocky canon or timbered ravine until darkness 
again favored their lonely trip. Only when within a few 
miles of their destination at either end of the route, were the 
chances of a run by sunlight taken. 

The characteristic recklessness of some, however, in 
even essaying this performance resulted in a severe fight on 
more than one occasion, and the death of two, as the sequel 
will show, on another. 

Two days of hard riding, or rather nights, and untiring 
watchfulness, were required, to effect the hazardous journey, 
and none others but the “scouts” attempted it; as when it 
became necessary for parties connected with the military ex- 
peditions to go to either of the posts, they did so under escort 
of the wagon train, never with the “scouts.” 

Early in the month of November, two scouts — one a 
half-breed known all over the plains as McDonald, and the 
other a white man named Davis, were sent out from Camp 
Supply by General Sheridan, (who had taken up his head- 
quarters at that point,) shortly after darkwith important dis- 
patches for the Government, and a small mail for Fort 
Dodge. 


176 


STORIES OF THE 


McDonald was a half Cheyenne, his father had in all 
probability been a Scotch trapper in the employ of the North- 
west Fur Company, thirty or forty years, before but McDonald 
remembered nothing of him, and had lived all his life with 
the tribe whose blood flowed through his veins. He was, 
therefore, an Indian by education, and possessed nearly all 
their characteristics, with the remarkable exception of a de- 
cided friendship for the white race, whose cause he heroical- 
ly espoused at the commencement of hostilities. 

He rarely wore any other dress than the traditional 
buckskin suit, heavily porcupined and beaded, with its 
long fringe drooping gracefully from the seams, and on cer- 
tain occasions adhered most religiously to the tribal fascina- 
tions of the war paint, which he then used in the most 
extravagant manner. 

That he was the representative of one of the noblest at- 
tributes of human nature, however — faithfulness, which rather 
than break, he accepted death — will be conceded further on. 

Davis was born in Ohio, and had wandered to the Great 
Plains when he was only fourteen, having been attracted by its 
mysteries and charms, in 1843, shortly after the appearance 
of General Fremont’s fascinating report of his memorable 
expedition to the “Rocky Mountains and beyond.” 

For twenty years he had roamed over the “ Far West ” 
making his home near the head-waters of the Missouri and 
among the Sioux, whose beautiful language he understood 
perfectly. He had been south of the Platte only a few sea- 
sons previous to the breaking out of the hostiles, where he 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


177 


had taken up with a Cheyenne squaw, and was trading with 
that nation when the war commenced. 

The only remarkable characteristic possessed by Davis 
was a wonderfully quick perception and determination, unex- 
celled by any other man I ever knew. 

All men whose lives have been spent on the plains or in 
the mountains from boyhood, I am aware, have this element 
of character in a marked degree usually, which places them 
in moments of great difficulty and peril far ahead of the 
Indian, but Davis was strongly superior in this particular • 
he subordinated it sometimes, however, to an extensive reck- 
lessness, which eventually cost him his life. 

The days dragged slowly along, and more than a week 
past without the return of McDonald and Davis to Camp 
Supply — nothing had been heard of them since they had 
ridden out in the dark of that cold winter night. Other 
scouts had come and gone again, but they brought no news 
of their arrival at Fort Dodge, and of course it was con- 
ceded that they were dead — killed by the Indians — but how, 
or where, was all wrapped in mystery. The wagon train 
which constantly traveled on the trail from the Camp to the 
Arkansas brought no information in regard to their fate, and 
it was believed that like the ocean which never gives up its 
dead, the great plains had added another silent chapter to its 
horrors. 

Nearly three weeks after the disappearance of the scouts, 
as the train one afternoon was approaching the low reaches 


178 


STORIES OF THE 


of the Cimarron bottoms, a large party of Indians were 
observed on the sand hills about a mile and a half away on 
the opposite side of that river, apparently watching the com- 
mand. The cavalry were immediately sent in pursuit, which 
movement as quickly as the Indian discovered they started 
over the divide and were out of sight in a moment. A 
squadron of the mounted detachment kept on however, to 
the spot where the Indians were first seen, but it was not 
considered prudent by the commanding officer to chase them 
further and leave the train without all its escort, as this move 
of the Indians who could no longer be seen, might only be a 
ruse to draw a portion of the troops away, while another war 
party, possibly secreted somewhere in the interminable sand 
hills, could dash in, stampede the mules and cut off a por- 
tion of the wagons, that locality being peculiarly fitted for 
such strategy. 

Soon after reaching the high sand knoll from which the 
Indians had been watching the movements of the train, the 
troops dismounted and there discovered the first link in the 
chain of mystery that surrounded the fate of McDonald and 
Davis. 

In a little ravine a short distance from where the horses 
stood, under a clump of plum bushes, three roughly made 
graves were found, which the men tore open and resurrected 
the bodies of three Arrapahoe warriors, wrapped in heavily 
porcupined and otherwise richly ornamented buffalo robes. 
The war paint was still fresh on their faces, and their raw- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


179 


hide shields were lying on their breasts. Bows, arrows, and 
a red-stone pipe were found lying at the side of each, and 
around the neck of one a circlet of wolf teeth, interspersed 
at regular distances with the rattles of the rattle-snake — a 
characteristic ornament. 

Through the bodies of two of the dead savages were bul- 
let holes, corresponding in caliber to the Spencer carbine, 
and another through the neck of the remaining warrior 
plainly indicated how they had found their death ; but by 
whose hand, and where, and why were they left among the 
barren sand-hills ? 

The trail of a large war party was discovered a few rods 
off from the mouth of the ravine leading from the north, and 
the imprint of their moccasins in the soft earth indicated they 
had rested there. These facts connected with other unmis- 
takable signs to the initiated in plains-lore, clearly connected 
the death of the Indians buried here with the fate of 
McDonald and Davis, whose bones it was certain were 
bleaching somewhere between the Cimarron and Arkansas. 

The dead Indians were stripped of their trinkets, hur- 
riedly rolled back in their holes and the cavalry rode slowly 
back to the river, where they found the men cutting the ice 
and the train ready to cross. 

A new interest was awakened among the command, and 
every man was untiring in his efforts to find out something 
more in relation to the missing “ scouts. ” 

The whole region within protecting distance of the train 


180 


STORIES OF THE 


was carefully scoured as they moved along by. the cavalry, 
and even the infantry made tedious detours from the direct 
line of march in hope of unraveling^ the fate of the unfortu- 
nate scouts, but another day passsd away without any further 
clue, and the command went into camp on the high land 
between the Cimarron and Crooked creek full of excitement. 

On the afternoon of the secbnd day after leaving the 
Cimarron, as the train was approaching Mulberry creek, 
further evidence of the death of the scouts was discovered. 
The commanding officer was riding with Colonel Keogh in 
advance of the column, intently watching the actions of the 
Colonel’s two hounds, of rare breed, that always accompa- 
nied him, and who were evidently on the trail of some ani- 
mal, when suddenly an immense pack of gray wolves were 
driven out of the bush by one of the flankers who had been 
ordered in that direction by Colonel Keogh, and in a 
moment the frightened pack were scampering over the prai- 
rie with all the dogs of the train in full pursuit. 

In a short time, and before the wolves were out of sight, 
the interest of the two officers in those animals w^re inter- 
rupted by a young lieutenant, who came galloping up to 
them from the rear of the train, holding in his hands a pair 
of new pantaloons that had been saturated with blood, but 
which was now dry. 

“ Major,” said the lieutenant, saluting the commanding 
officer, “onepf my men found this near the creek, and I 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


181 


think it has a story if we can read it, that will tell something 
more about the fate of McDonald and Davis.” 

The commanding officer scanned the bloody cloth a mo- 
ment, and handing it to Col. Keogh for inspection, replied '• 
“Evidently those pantaloons have been torn from the 
wearer; they were never taken off in the ordinary manner, 
for you can see they are still buttoned, and I imagine the 
Indians and Coyotes have had a hand in it; Col. Keogh and 
myself were just wondering what so many wolves — pointing 
with his glass to the pack in the distance — were doing here 
on the creek — there is certainly some unusual cause to attract 
them, and now their presence confirms your suspicions, and 
I believe myself we shall find out something here in regard 
to the missing “scouts” or some one else who has been 
murdered by the Indians.” 

Col. Keogh suggested the propriety of camping there, 
and the Lieutenant stated there was plenty of wood and 
water. 

“You may stop the train,” said the Major, addressing 
himself to the Adjutant who had now joined the little group 
that had gathered where this conversation took place. “We 
will go into camp on the creek — it is early yet, and perhaps 
we can find out all about the matter before dark. As soon 
as the men get their dinners, order every one who can safely 
leave, to make a thorough search all over the prairie, and up 
and down the creek.” 

The Adjutant rode back, halted the train, and the com- 

17 


182 


STORIES OF THE 


mand, among whom the story of the bloody pants had now 
circulated, went into camp, cooked their dinners as quickly 
as possible, in order to get all the daylight they could in 
which to find out something more of the sad fate of McDon- 
ald and Davis. 

As soon as dinner was disposed of, the sentries posted 
and the mules and horses picketed near the wagons, several 
details were made by the Adjutant to search through the 
creek bottom, and a detachment of the cavalry ordered to 
scour the open prairie on all sides, to find out if possible the 
secret of the bloody pants. 

In about half an hour after all the details had left the 
camp, one of the cavalry soldiers of the searching party 
returned, rode up to a group of officers who were smoking 
their pipes around a blazing fire of old logs, near the bank of 
the creek, and reported that some of the infantry had just 
found two dead horses and an empty mail sack down in the 
bottom. 

“ The letters have all been torn open,” said the trooper, 
“ here is one I picked up (handing it to the Adjutant who 
stood by) signed by Col. Crosby. Three or four of the men 
say they know the horses, and that they are the same ones 
that McDonald and Davis rode away from Camp Supply — 
two bays — they are nearly eaten up by the wolves, but I guess 
there’s enough of their skin left to tell their color.” 

“ In which direction,” said the Adjutant, “up or down 
the stream.” 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


183 


“ Up the creek,” he replied. “You see that dead Cot- 
tonwood,” pointing to a tree whose top could be seen above 
the banks of the stream less than an eighth of a mile away. 
“Well, righf there, there is a little open spot, near the tree, 
and up the creek, two or three rods from it, are what is left 
of the horses in the brush — you can’t miss it because a good 
many of the men have gathered around there. Look ! you 
can see some of them now out on the prairie, opposite the 
place.” 

The soldier rode back up the creek after imparting this 
information, and all of the officers who were not on duty 
ordered their horses and started for the “ dead Cottonwood.” 

In a few moments the place indicated by the soldier was 
reached, where the commanding officer and Col. Keogh with 
about twenty men were found. 

Lying in a thicket of hazel, close by the water, were the 
two horses with the flesh partially eaten off their bones, and 
a small canvas mail bag fastened to an overhanging limb — 
where it had evidently caught in an attempt to throw it in — 
was dragging in the stream. 

The contents of the mail sack were strewed over the 
ground in every direction, the letters torn open, and the dis- 
patches from the government a mass of pulp on the edge of 
the stream. A few cartridge shells were scattered around, 
and from the tracks in the soft mud of the bottom, it could 
easily be seen that a stand had been made at this point by 
the unfortunate men. 


184 


STORIES OF THE 


The Indians knew, as early as that time, that letters 
occasionally contained money, and that fact accounted for 
the demoralized condition of the “scouts’” dispatches. The 
numerous raids of the savages on the Overland Stage Routes 
had taught them the value of a mail sack — they evidently 
thought to profit by their experience in this instance, for these 
pirates of the prairies, while they are opposed to the encroach- 
ments of the white man within their domain, accept with 
avidity all the conveniences which civilization brings to them. 

They had learned the value of our medium of exchange 
for the power it gives them to secure from the trader those 
things they covet, at a fairer equivalent than in the uncertain 
complications of direct barter ; so that money now taken 
from their prisoners is no longer destroyed as worthless, or 
thrown away, but has assumed a value which is being more 
perfectly understood every year, without a labored study of 
political economy. 

The scattered mail was carefully collected, put in the 
original sack and sent back to camp, while the search for 
further developments in this melancholy episode was con- 
tinued through the timber on the margin of the creek, and 
upon the broad prairie on either side, but night came on 
without anything new being discovered, and early next morn- 
ing the train went on its way to Fort Dodge. 

The search, of course was reluctantly abandoned, as not 
even the solution of the mystery which now seemed almost 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


185 


within the grasp of those whose interest had been so thor- 
oughly awakened, could subordinate the duty of the train 
for a single day. 

The train reached Fort Dodge early the following after- 
noon and commenced taking in its immense freight of corn 
and oats immediately, in order to return as soon as possible 
to the spot where McDonald and Davis had evidently given 
up their lives. 

A short rest of a few hours for the men, while some re- 
pairs were being made to the paraphenalia of the train, was all 
the delay permitted by the commanding officer, and by noon 
the long column of wagons rolled out once more with now a 
double duty for its mission. 

The camping place was made at the same spot on Mul- 
berry Creek where it had camped before, and where the 
1 ‘ scouts’ ” horses and the mail were found. 

The creek was reached about four o’clock that afternoon 
— too late for any active work, and the command retired 
eager for the first glimpse of morning. 

As soon as it was fairly daylight, the animals were pick- 
eted within the line of sentries, all the usual precautions being 
taken to prevent a surprise by the Indians, and breakfast dis- 
posed of, every effort was made to find the bodies of the 
missing Scouts, as all felt certain they had been killed in that 
vicinity, and left where they had fallen, for the Indians have 
no compunctions in leaving a white man food for the wolves 
when they have secured his scalp. 


186 


STORIES OF THE 


Every available man in the whole command — civilian 
and soldier — was detailed to go carefully over the whole 
country within a couple of miles of the camp, in parties suf- 
ficiently strong to protect themselves from any small number 
of Indians that might dash down upon them from the hills, 
while the region within that radius was pretty well picketed 
and overlooked by the sentries, who were stationed on all the 
highest points of the bluffs, and could see the enemy no mat- 
ter what direction they might come from, and give the alarm 
by firing a gun, which would of course give all those who 
were out, ample time to prepare for any contemplated attack. 

The search was continued all day without results, until 
just before sun-down, when a party of cavalry that had ven- 
tured out at a greater distance than the rest of the command, 
sent a detachment back to camp with the news that they had 
found the remains of the scouts, and orders to return with a' 
wagon to bring them in. 

The commanding officer, Colonel Keogh, and four or five 
others, upon the receipt of this intelligence, mounted their 
horses and rode out to the place indicated by the soldier, who 
remained to conduct the wagon and the escort of infantry that 
had been ordered to go with him. 

After a brisk gallop of ten or fifteen minutes, the officers 
reached the company of cavalry who had been dismounted 
and were lying on the ground, discussing the terrible fight 
that must have taken place before McDonald or Davis sue- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


187 


cumbed, as their pluck and desperate character under such 
circumstances were well known. 

Near where the squadron of cavalry had halted, on the 
side of a hill sloping toward the creek, were discovered the 
ghastly skeletons of the unfortunate scouts, bleaching in the 
cold winter sun. A leg had been dragged here, and an arm 
there by the half famished wolves, who had devoured every 
particle of flesh off* the bones of the two men. One of the 
skulls, Supposed to have been Davis’, was only found after a 
diligent search, a quarter of a mile away, where it had been 
carried by a wolf and then dropped. 

The other skull, McDonald’s, was crushed into atoms, 
and was found near the remainder of his skeleton. 

Davis had been shot through the head at least three 
times, as that number of bullet holes were plainlv discerna- 
ble, and on the back of it great chips had been hacked out as 
if done with an axe. 

There was nothing to indicate in the surroundings of the 
place where the remains of the two skeletons were found, that 
that spot had been their last stand ; it was evident they had 
met their death elsewhere, and had been dragged to where 
they were lying by the wolves, but as it was too late to in- 
vestigate further, the matter was abandoned for the present. 

Nearly all of the bones of both men were collected, 
wrapped in a rubber poncho and taken to camp, where they 
were covered over with a pile of rocks to prevent the wolves 
from scattering them over the prairie again, and left until the 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


188 


train returned from Camp Supply when they were taken to 
Fort Dodge and given a Christian burial. 

The next morning the train went on to its destination, and 
a few days afterward returned and camped on the old ground 
to seek for further developments. On the evening of that day 
the Commanding Officer with Colonel Keogh and two or 
three others, discovered the exact spot where the brave scouts 
had met their death in the thick brush more than a mile from 
where their skeletons had been found. A scarred and blotted 
tree, from one of the limbs of which was suspended a bloody 
rope, stood alone in a little opening on the bank of the stream, 
encompassed by rocky bluffs, from the top of which could be 
seen Fort Dodge and the silent waters of the Arkansas. 

The rough bark of this tree was torn by a hundred bul- 
lets, and its gnarled trunk pierced by as many arrows. At 
its foot was lying a broken spear, and the ground all round 
was covered with cartridge shells. Dark patches, that had 
once been little pools of blood, matted the dead grass at its 
roots, all of which told more expressively than any language 
the story of the horrid scene that had been enacted there, 

A few of these mute witnesses were collected, and the 
party returned to camp having fulfilled its mission, but the 
thoughts of the awful and hopeless fight that had broken the 
silence of that winter prairie settled a feeling of sadness over 
the whole command. 

After the battle of the Washita, and white winged peace 
brought the tribes in friendly relations with the white man 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


189 


once more, some of the facts in this tragedy were elicited 
from the very Indians who had taken part in it. 

From them was learned the story of the fight in this 
wise: “A party of Arrapahoes, numbering nearly eighty, 
discovered the two scouts about sixteen miles from Fort 
Dodge, early in the afternoon of the second day after, they 
had left Camp Supply. The Indians tried to surround them 
on the open prairie before they could reach Mulberry Creek 
but McDonald and Davis were too wary, knowing full well 
the terrible consequences if they permitted themselves to be 
taken alive. 

“The savages circled around them but did not fire a shot, 
hoping, as they all the time drew nearer, to surround them 
before they could reach the creek. 

“It was a terrible race for life, and all the cunning and 
strategy of the Indian and white man was called into requisi- 
tion, each endeavoring to circumvent the other. 

“The scouts rode for the friendly timber on the creek in 
front of them — but still so far away — with all the confidence 
of their nature stretched to its utmost, feeling certain that 
could they but reach it, the Indians would be outwitted by 
the tactics of the white man. 

“But it was destined to be otherwise. Not a shot had 
been fired yet on either side, and the scouts saw the refuge 
of the dead and leafless trees almost within reach — they saw 
also in the hazy distance the flag at Fort Dodge, gleaming 
and twinkling in the sunlight as they reached the crest of the 


190 


STORIES OF THE 


hill towering above the narrow bottom of Mulberry Creek, 
when, at a sign from the chief, a young warrior stopped, 
jumped off his pony and pulled up his rifle just as McDonald, 
who was a little in advance, entered the low sumac bushes 
skirting the timber. The Indian fired, killed Davis’ horse 
and the scout found himself on foot, with twelve long miles 
between where he stood and Fort Dodge. 

“The Indians gave a yell of exultation as they saw Davis’ 
horse fall, and in another instant McDonald’s horse was shot 
too, the red devils having purposely avoided hitting the men 
before, determined to take them alive if possible. 

“ Here the two scouts stood at bay for a few moments, 
utilizing the carcasses of their dead animals for a breastwork, 
from behind which they killed two of the murderous fiends in 
front of them. 

“One of the Indians now rode up to within a hundred 
yards of where the scouts stood bravely together, and made 
a sign to McDonald to talk with him. McDonald stepped 
out a rod or two in advance of the spot where he had stood 
to listen to the Indian, who said to him : 

‘ Leave Davis and come to us — you are our brother — we 
do not want to kill you ; we will give you your life to get the 
white man’s scalp.’ 

“ But McDonald heroically answered the savage, while he 
stood in front of Davis, that the white man was his brother 
too— that he could die with him, but could not leave him; he 
then pulled the trigger of his rifle, which he had drawn up as 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


191 


he said this, and sent the ball into the very throat of the In- 
dian who had made the proposition. 

‘ ‘This exasperated the remainder of the Indians, who 
rushed upon the unfortunate scouts, and drove them from 
their little shelter, up the creek to the lone tree where they 
laid down their lives. And there they stood shoulder to 
shoulder until McDonald fell ; then Davis fired shot after shot 
as rapidly as possible, killing two more Indians, one of whom 
was the chief, (whose grave was found with the others by the 
train in the sand-hills of the Cimarron).” 

The Indians never would tell the meaning of the bloody 
rope, but that it was an important factor in the orgies which 
took p’ace over the dead bodies of the scouts no one can 
doubt. 

The broken spear, arrow heads, and some of the car- 
tridge shells the writer has preserved in the East, which will 
be transferred to the rooms of the Kansas State Historical 
Society, as has the letter from General Sheridan, (found in 
the scattered mail on Mulberry Creek as related,) herewith 
copied : 

Headquarters Department of the Missouri, 

Camp Supply, November 3rd, 1 868. 

My Dear Major Inman : I send out two scouts this even- 
ing to see how you are getting along with the train. Send 
them back in advance of you to let me know where you are. 
******** 
Yours truly, P. H. Sheridan, 

Major General. 


192 


STORIES OF THE 


The truth of this tragedy, in all its details, will probably 
never be known, for the Indians, who were the principal ac. 
tors, were reticent as is their wont, and only what has been 
related, in a rude manner, could be gathered from them. 

It is the impression of the writer, however, that the un- 
fortunate men were captured and tortured, the evidence all 
*• 

pointing so strongly in that direction — but this the Indians 
denied. But if they really were killed as stated by the sav- 
ages, who, even then, in the quiet of his own home, can re- 
alize what the scouts suffered, as they stood shoulder to shoul- 
der against that scarred and blasted tree hopelessly defending 
themselves from the overpowering number of red fiends op- 
posed, with the fort in sight from the top of the bluffs just 
above them ; or how immeasurably less can be imagined the 
feelings of Davis as he saw his faithful comrade fall — how 
despairingly he must have clutched his rifle as his stock of 
cartridges was fast diminishing ; how earnestly he must have 
looked toward the horizon for some hope of help that never 
came. As the wind was sadly sighing his requiem, he sunk 
to his death as the last gleam of golden light flooded the 
hills — so the horrid picture before him ended in eternity. 

In the campaign of 1868-9, i n which the above related 
incidents occurred, were many men who are now living in 
Kansas who took a prominent part in the stormy times of 
those dreary months, who, if this short sketch should hap- 
pen to fall under their eyes, will recognize the facts in 
the death of the scouts as given. Their names would 
occupy too much space if it even were possible to collect 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


193 


them. Many of them, too, among whom was the brave Col- 
onel Keogh, and other gallant officers and soldiers of the fa- 
mous Seventh Cavalry — were killed in the disastrous battle 
of the Rose Bud in Custer’s reckless and unsupported charge 
on the camp of Sitting Bull. Many of those, too, who par- 
ticipated in the arduous work of that winter’s campaign have 
held, and are now filling responsible positions all over the 
state. Among them are Messrs. C. C. Sprigg, J. F. Dyer, 
and Geo. Huyck, respectively Clerk, Register of Deeds, 
and Treasurer of Ellsworth county, and Hon. Paul T. Cur- 
lett, Chairman of the Board of Commissioners, Pawnee coun- 
ty. Pat Sherman, on the police force of Topeka, was Chief 
Wagon-Master of the train that moved all winter between 
Dodge City and Camp Supply, and Larry Dieger, late Marshal 
of Dodge City, was his assistant. 



18 


194 


STORIES OF THE 


“WAL HENDERSON.” 

In one of the busydittle mining camps just over the range 
in New Mexico, there prowled around about ten years ago, 
a notorious character, whose life was made up of desperate 
adventures, and whose tragic death, which is the subject of 
this sketch, illustrates the inevitable fate of the average bor- 
der bully. 

“ Wal Henderson” was born and /‘raised” — as he 
termed it — in Missouri, and came over the mountains into 
the New Mexico mines from Colorado soon after the first dis- 
covery of gold in the Moreno hills, where he staked off a 
claim in Humbug Gulch, and commenced working in an ap_ 
parently honest way. He was a rough, illiterate fellow, pos- 
sessing the physique of a giant, courageous as a she grizzly 
with cubs, and such a dead shot with his revolver, that he 
soon became a terror to the whole mountain population ; in 
fact he was a desperado in its fullest sense, without one re- 
deeming quality, except that he was kind to his dog, a mangy, 
spotted, wicked-looking cur, fit companion for such a surly 
master. 

Any more intercourse with Wal, than was absolutely nec- 
essary, was carefully avoided by every one, and such an idea 
as getting into a dispute with him — who would rather shoot 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


195 


than eat — never entered the heads of those who worked 
claims in the vicinity, so that, virtually, he commanded the 
respect of a king. One afternoon Wal was seized with a de- 
sire to start off on a little prospecting tour to another portion 
of the range where he suspected the existence of a quartz 
lead, so he left his claim in the “ Gulch ” only partially open- 
ed, never dreaming for an instant that any one would have 
the temerity to jump it in his absence, after they discovered 
he owned it, and which he took good care they could easily 
learn, for before he went away he asked one of his more ed- 
ucated neighboring miners to “come over and cut his name” 
on a dead pine stump that stood near the mouth of his pit. 

This friend was nothing loth to oblige his surly comrade, 
so just after dinner he came over, when with his keen bowie 
knife he slashed out a huge 

“WaI henDerSoN his KLAime,” 
on the* dead stump. 

It took him nearly two 1 ours to complete his literary 
labors, while Wal stood by impatiently watching him, who 
when his friend had just finished the last touch of his rude 
letters, remarked : 

“Well, I guess there haint no one goin for to touch that 
thar,” and swinging his pick and shovel over his shoulder he 
whistled to his dog, and then taking his bearings by a look at 
the sun started down the canon on a sort of shuffling trot, 
and was soon out of sight. 

He was gone three days and when he returned found 


196 


STORIES OF THE 


that his ground had been “jumped” by a party of Irish 
miners who had come into the diggings during his absence. 

“ Wal in as quiet a manner as his bull-dog nature per- 
mitted, told them “to git! ” But they swore that they would 
hold it in spite of him, and if he was as bigas “ Finn MaCool ” 
they would fight him. 

Wal smothered his rage for the moment, cooly walked 
off to his cabin, and arming himself with two revolvers a Spen- 
cer carbine, and a wicked looking IXL blade started back to 
the gulch, determined to drive the intruders away or kill them 
if necessary — it mattered little as to choice. 

“ Git out of this! — quick! — jump ! or I’ll fill you full 
o’holes ! ” was “ Wal’s” greeting as he came in sight of the in- 
truders on his return ; upon which one of the plucky, but un- 
fortunate Irishmen made a break for Wal, to finish him by a 
well directed blow from his miner’s shovel. 

Wal quick as thought brought down his revolver and 
killed his man instantly — the bullet hitting him in the fore- 
head directly between the eyes — a spot that was “Wal’s” in- 
variable target, and which in his list of nearly a score of vic- 
tims, he never had failed to center. 

The two now thoroughly frightened companions of the 
dead miner fled to camp and told the story of the murder. 

“Wal” believing that he would have a crowd on his 
heels in a little while, made his way hurriedly to his cabin, 
proposing to “ lite out” for a while as he said, but a mob of 
plucky men intercepted him, and he was arrested, taken to 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


J97 


camp, confined in a little log building and a guard placed 
around it. 

As the news spread around the hills of “Wars’’ latest 
exploit, the Irish miners came flocking in from all directions, 
and the people of the town expected a general outbreak be 
tween the Irish and American element, if any resistance was 
offered to the infuriated friends of the murdered man in their 
attempt to take Wal from the improvised jail, which they 
openly proclaimed they intended to do as soon as night came 
on. 

The building used for the incarceration of Wal, was an 
abandoned log store about sixteen feet square ; the interstices 
of the logs were chinked with mud, and the whole surmount- 
ed by a brush and dirt roof. In the corner of the room- 
after the Mexican fashion — a huge, but rude fireplace had 
been constructed of stone and earth, from which a large chim- 
ney composed of the same material communicated with the 
open air through the roof above. 

No sooner had the heavy door closed on Wal than he 
began an accurate survey of his quarters, with a view of es- 
caping as soon as the mob he confidently expected should 
make their appearence. 

One glance at the immense fire-place, which yawned like 
the opening to a cave, and a look at the clear sky above 
through the chimney, satisfied him that he would be out of 
his prison, and up some mountain gulch before his intended 
captors could think twice. 


198 


STORIES OF THE 


Shortly after dark a motley crowd of rough miners, half 
crazed with the villainous liquors they had been drinking all 
the afternoon assembled at the jail, and ordered the guard 
away, fired their pistols in the air, and made the very hills 
ring with their curses and imprecations upon the prisoner 
within the little hut. 

Wal meanwhile had determined to escape, and in fact at 
the very time the crowd had reached the door, was on the 
roof quietly waiting for the mob to make a rush inside, when 
he proposed to leap to the ground from the rear of*the build 
ing. 

He waited for the signal, which soon came in the shape 
of a volley of pistol and carbine shots, and a wild yell from 
the would-be avengers, who with a desperate rush made for 
the door of the jail, which under the pressure flew from its 
fastenings and swung open with a loud report, throwing half 
a dozen of the mob upon the dirt floor. 

For a moment or two no one could enter, as those nearest 
the door became wedged together, while the pressure from 
the crowd in the rear held them more securely imprisoned 
than Wal, who at this juncture jumped from the roof, and to 
use his own expression “ lit out d d lively.” 

When the Growd b'ecame aware that Wal had escaped, 
they threatened to lynch the guard, and but for the interces- 
sion of some of the cooler-headed and less drunken members 
of the party, no doubt their threats would have been carried 
into execution. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


199 


They divided up into little bands and scoured the camp, 
visiting every suspected house or hole where their game 
might possibly be secreted, and it was not until early morn- 
ing that the search was abandoned. 

The following day the events of the preceding night were 
fully discussed, and as many conjectures were suggested in 
relation to Wal’s escape and present whereabouts, as there 
were groups of men ; each had his own theory, each knew 
exactly how and when he got away. 

Old Sam Bartlett, a short, thick-set, grizzly, veteran min- 
er, who had whacked bulls on the Santa Fe trail, had lived 
for months on hard tack and bacon in the mountains of Cal- 
ifornia and in Nevada, who had years before filibustered 
with Walker in Nicaragua, and who, altogether, had seen 
about as eventful a life as any man of his ag£, expressed it as 
his opinion “that Wal went up that thar chimbly, and by 
this here time was well heeled somewhar near camp surround- 
ed by a battery of small arms, and ready to fight the whole 
outfit.” 

Sam’s surmises proved true, as it afterward appeared, 
for no sooner had Wal made good his escape, than he went to 
his own den for a moment, to secure arms and ammunition, 
and then to an abandoned tunnel about a mile up the near- 
est gulch, where he immediately commenced to fortify his 
position, and prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible if 
the mob pursued him, or, as he afterward said: “Did not 


200 


STORIES OF THE 


intend to pass in his checks, until he had made a sieve of a 
few of ’em.” 

The Mexican woman with whom he lived proved a faith- 
ful ally, and secretly conveyed, under the shadow of the 
night, food and his blankets, never revealing to a soul where 
her Americano was, and always earnestly denying any 
knowledge of the fugitive. 

For nearly a week Wal lived in the abandoned mining 
tunnel, at the expiration of which time, when the excitement 
had somewhat subsided, and it being generally supposed that 
he had fled the country, he quietly walked into camp at mid- 
night, broke open a stable, took out a horse, saddled him and 
galloped off to Taos, which place he reached next morning. 
In justice to Wal, let it be known he was not a professional 
horse-thief— he had not gotten so low as that — but having per- 
fect faith in the old saw that “self-preservation is the first law 
of nature,” seized upon the only reliable means to escape 
strangling by a mob, and on his arrival at Taos, where he 
felt secure, returned the animal to his owner with thanks, 
complimenting him on his architectural skill in constructing a 
stable that could be entered so easily, and upon the endur- 
ance of his horse that ’Fad carried him so well. 

A little more than a month later, the camp was some- 
what startled one afternoon at seeing Wal come riding down 
the main street mounted on a Mexican pony, with four revol- 
vers buckled around his waist, and a carbine slung across his 
back. Halting in front of *Joe Stenson’s saloon, he alighted 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL, 


201 


and with a devil-may-care sort of a nod to the loafers hang- 
ing around, invited them all in to take a drink. To the 
crowd at the bar he related his adventures since he had been 
among them, said he was tired of Taos, and came back to 
look after his mining interests up Humbug Gulch which he 
thought he had neglected too long, and added “if any gen- 
tleman (?)” were sympathizers with the would be stranglers, 
he would be pleased to step out on the street and give them 
an exhibition of his peculiar manner of managing the porta- 
ble battery he had provided himself with No one seeming 
particularly anxious of witnessing the proffered entertainment, 
war was not declared, and after a round or two of Taos light- 
ning, as whisky was called in those days, Wal quietly mount- 
ed his horse and made his way toward his little log hut, 
where he was met by his faithful Senora and provided with a 
bountiful repast of tortillas and frijoles (corncake and beans). 

The excitement in camp gradually exhausted itself, and 
it was mutually agreed that Wal should not be molested if he 
kept away from Humbug Gulch. 

Wal apparently accepted the situation, and turned his 
attention to the laudable ambition of supplying the camp with 
cord-wood, and almost any day thereafter he could be seen 
coming into town with his load, which brought him a fair 
price and ready sale. 

One day about two months after he had settled himself 
down to legitimate pursuits, while he was sitting in Stenson’s 
saloon" fatigued by a somewhat arduous morning’s work, a 


202 


STORIES OF THE 


party of Irish miners entered, all of whom were more or less 
under the influence of liquor, and after bandying words with 
Wal in reference to his claim and the murder of their com- 
panion, one, rather more bold than discreet, approached Wal 
holding a large rock and said : “Be jabers, Wal, you would 
look better dead than alive,’’ when Wal, as quick as thought, 
drew his pistol and drawing a bead on the Irishman, said : 
“ Drop that stone.” 

The stone dropped, Wal quietly resumed his seat with- 
out another word, replaced his pistol in its scabbard, cooly 
lighted his pipe and commenced to smoke. The gang were 
evidently bent on mischief, but Wal could not be intimidated 
and made no move to leave his seat, but kept his keen eye 
on every act of the drunken mob. 

He listened cooly and indifferently for a while to their 
coarse jets and braggadocio threats cast at him, but there 
comes a moment when “patience ceases to be a virtue” 
and comes soonest to men of such caliber as Wal, and when 
another of the belligerents approached too near with an out- 
rageous remark, Wal jumped to his feet and said: “By 
G — d, I think I’ll kill one of you just for luck, and put a 
stop to this d — d nonsense,” and whipping out his pistol fired, 
the ball as always, taking effect in the bridge of his victim’s 
nose, passing through the right eye and coming out in front 
of his ear.” 

At the. report of the pistol a crowd rushed in, but no 
one attempted to interfere with Wal, who took a position 


203 


STORIES OF THE 


against the side of the room and invited any one who wanted 
him to “ step right up, but if anyone did, he would make a 
sieve of him.” 

No one desirous of being converted into that useful 
article just then, not a soul stepped forward. 

The Alcalde and Sheriff were sent for and soon arrived, 
whereupon Wal gave himself up, and was remanded to his 
old quarters — the little log jail — from which he had so suc- 
cessfully made his escape by way of the huge chimney, on a 
former occasion. 

The drunken companions of the murdered miner imme- 
diately upon the arrest of Wal started off to muster up a 
crowd of their countrymen, determined this time to mete 
out summary vengeance upon the assassin of their com- 
rade. 

To preclude the possibility of an escape on the part of 
the prisoner, an additional guard was employed to watch 
the outside of the jail, and two men were posted on the 
r00 f — “ n o goin’ up that thar chimbley this time.” 

Shortly after dark another mob composed of the friends 
of Wal’s last victim came pouring into camp from the gulches 
and hills, who proceeded directly to the jail, determined this 
time that their game should not slip through their fingers. 

In a few moments the infuriated and howling would-be 
lynchers forced the door of the building open, in the same 
manner as they had done before, but their bird had flown— 
Wal was not there ! 


204 


STORIES OF THE 


Knowing the desperate character of the men who had 
come to take his life, Wal resolved to make a determined 
effort to get away from them, if possible, and when he first 
heard them surging and howling in the distance, put all his 
quick wits at work and soon decided what might be done. 

Standing at the side of the door as it was crushed from 
its fastenings, he allowed the crowd to tumble and rush pell- 
mell into the dark room, while he quietly slipped past them 
out into the street, walked slowly to the first corner, and 
then shot into the night — and was free. 

The rage and disappointment of the exasperated miners’ 
on the discovery that their man had eluded them can better 
be imagined than described. 

Wal proceeded to his little home, took one of his horses 
from the stable and rode rapidly out of camp and over a 
mountain trail, and in a few hours was miles away where he 
found a safe retreat. 

The disappointed crowd on discovering that for the pres- 
ent at least, Wal was beyond their power, slowly retired to 
their homes, but first swore they would kill Wal on sight if he 
ever made his appearance in camp again. 

But a few days elapsed before Wal again dropped into 
town, but strange as it may seem no attempt was made to 
arrest him. 

For some weeks everything about camp moved along 
quietly, and it was hoped that further disturbance was at an 
end, but one afternoon while Wal was standing in front of 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


205 


one of the little stores that were scattered at intervals 
through the long main street of the town, engaged in a con- 
versation with a lot of miners who had congregated there, a 
horseman came galloping up the principal thoroughfare, and 
halted directly in front of the door where Wal'and his com- 
panions were talking. 

Taking a single glance at Wal, he exclaimed, “ you are 
the man I am looking for ! ” and drawing his revolver com- 
menced shooting. He fired three shots in rapid succession, 
neither of which however took effect, and before he could 
cock his pistol again, which he was in the act ot doing, Wal 
had “drawn a bead” on him and fired. 

The ball struck him in the trigger w thumb which was 
thereby turned, or it would have found its proper center 
between^the eyes. Finding himself disabled, the rider put 
spurs to his horse and fled to the friendly shelter of the near- 
est ravine, but soon returned dismounted, as he discovered 
he had not been followed by the terrible Wal. 

A crowd gathered around to shoot ythe wretch who had 
so deliberately jeopardized the lives of innocent citizens — 
but he called out that he was wounded and powerless and 
“for God sake not to kill him,” that he would give himself 
up quietly if he could be permitted to see a doctor. 

The doctor happened to be sitting in front of his office 
near by who took the man in, and amputated his thumb. 

He was then turned over to the sheriff, who placed him 
19 


206 


STORIES OF THE 


in an unoccupied log building, and appointed a guard to 
watch him. 

During the night, however, following in the footsteps of 
the illustrious Wal, he eluded the vigilance of the guard, made 
good his escape, and ran to the mountains where he was re- 
ceived by his friends, who were determined to protect him 
from re-arrest. 

The following day word was sent to the doctor to come 
out and dress his wounds, and obeying the summons he found 
him within a hundred yards of his cabin, by the side of a 
mining ditch, surrounded by an array of pistols, carbines and 
knives, determined to resist any attempt to re-arrest him. 

The point selected commanded every avenue of approach 
up the mountain slope, without the garrison of one man being 
seen. 

Here he remained several days, and announced to the 
Alcalde, through some of his friends, that he would die be- 
fore giving himself up to the “ Stranglers,” but would submit 
if soldiers were sent for him. 

Upon this message of defiance no further effort was made 
to capture him, and the town lapsed once more into its wonted 
quietude. Even Henderson became remarkaby docile, no 
further disturbances occurring between him and the miners — 
the trouble ending, apparently, by mutual consent. 

Some months subsequent to the incidents related in the 
foregoing, the little camp was again thrown into a state of ex- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


207 


citement in consequence of a report of the robbery of the 
mail in the canon between Elizabethtown and Ute Creek. 

It was bruited about, and proved true, .that when the 
coach (which made tri-weekly trips between the camp and the 
Cimarron, to connect with the great Southern Overland Line) 
reached a lonely point in the canon, where the road was nar- 
row, and wound round a side-hill covered with a dense growth 
of scrubby pines, three disguised men would slip out and 
order the driver to halt, then without moving from their place 
on either side of the confined pass with their rifles pointed 
toward him, demand that the express box be thrown off from 
the boot. 

This modest request being promptly complied with, they 
ordered the driver to move on, much to the relief of the 
thoroughly frightened conductor, and the two or three pas- 
sengers inside. 

Five or six depredations of this character were committed 
in the course of a month, when the people in camp began to 
have their suspicions aroused, and many were the conjectures 
as to who the guilty parties could be. 

A company was formed to scour the canon, but not even 
a clue of the highwaymen could be found, nor a place that 
exhibited any signs of a rendezvous. 

This fact confirmed the suspicions of the law abiding por- 
tion of the community, that there existed in their midst and 
neighboring settlements at Ute Creek, an organized band of 


208 


STORJES OF THE 


“ Road Agents ” who started out only on favorable opportuni- 
ties for carrying on their nefarious purposes. 

It was believed by many that persons residing in Eliza- 
bethtown kept watch, and advised their partners in this crime 
at Ute Creek at what time a large shipment of gold would 
probably be made, and the number of passengers, with their 
names, the coach would carry. 

Wal absented himself from camp a day or two at a time, 
and it began to be murmured that he could tell if he would, 
a great deal concerning these systematic robberies ; and it 
was even hinted that he not only indirectly aided and abetted 
the attacks on the coach, but took an active part himself. 

He was very reticent on the subject, and it was a fact 
commented upon by nearly every one in camp, that after an 
absence of two or three days, he would invariably turn up 
the very morning after a robbery, with a load of wood for 
sale, and as demurely ride through town on his little wagon 
as if such a thing as an attack on the coach the day before 
had never taken place. 

Of course no positive proof of his complicity coqld be ob- 
tained, yet it was generally believed that he belonged to the 
gang. 

Joe Stenson — who kept the principal saloon — and was 
well known throughout the Territory, not only on account of 
his size and weight, but also in consequence of his insatiable 
thirst for “ bug juice ” and dexterous manipulation of cards, 
was withal a law abiding citizen, and would tolerate nothing 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


209 


that was not strictly “regular” in the eye of the law. Joe 
wouldn’t steal a horse, or carry off a red-hot stove, but woe 
to the unfortunate and confiding individual who sat down to 
Joe’s game with the expectation of leaving with a cent in his 
clothes. 

Joe’s thorough knowledge of Monte, Faro, Poker and 
other genteel games, made him as much a terror behind the 
green-covered table as a pack of highway robbers, and while 
he would not hesitate to fleece some unsuspecting victim in 
a gentlemanly game, he had no sympathy with any law-break- 
er or “Road Agent,” who would halt a man for his money 
without the farcical proceeding of having a little bout of 
cards to win it honorably. ^ 

One afternoon while the robberies of the mail coach 
were at their height, three or four broken down gamblers 
and loafers, sauntered into Stenson’s saloon and commenced 
to discuss the last depredation, and the modus operandi of the 
efficient agents. 

Prominent among the group was Wal ; each had his the- 
ory to advance, and each expressed it freely. 

Joe said, “don’t yer understand,” — a favorite phrase 

when excited — “don’t yer understand, the d d rascals 

don’t live a great ways from this camp, and I wouldn’t won- 
der if a few of them — don’t yer understand — are right in 
sight of this shebang now — don’t yer understand; I hain’t 
got no sympathy for any such work, — don’t yer understand 


210 


STORIES OF THE 


— and would help hang every mother’s son of ’em, by G — d, 
don’t yer understand!” 

Old Sam Bartlett expressed it “as his opinion, that Reub 
Jones, of Ute Creek knowed all about it, and was at the head 
of the gang.” 

Wal put in his oar occasionally, but from his remarks it 
was apparent that his sympathy was rather in favor of that 

style of robbing, “than stealing it through a d d old Faro 

box.” 

Words waxed high and it was evident there “was going 
to be a difficult ,” as Kit Carson used to say. 

Joe saw that trouble would ensue if the conversation 
was not dropped, so desirous of putting an end to it, turned 
to Wal and said: “Wal, we’ve had enough of this, so come 
on and have a drink and go home.” 

Wal accepted the invitation and with the closing remark 

“that he considered the robbers were a d a sight better 

than some of the genteel thieves who live right in camp,” he 
walked up to the bar, while Joe went behind and said, “Wal 
what will you have.” 

“I’ll take whiskey in mine,” answered Wal. 

Joe set up a glass and bottle, and while mixing a toddy 
beneath the bar for himself, Wal seized the bottle, poured his 
glass full to the brim, and then deliberately emptied it on the 
counter with the remark: “If you don’t like that, why then 
take your change anyway you want it,” at the same instant 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


211 


putting his hand on his hip as if in the act of drawing his 
pistol. 

As quick as thought, Joe knowing the desperate charac- 
ter of the man he had to deal with, seized a pistol from 
behind the bar, leveled it, fired, and Wal fell dead. 

Joe immediately stepped from where he was, to the front, 
pistol in hand, and emptied the remaining chambers of his 
revolver into the prostrate form of Wal. 

Joe gave himself up at once, and an examination was 
shortly held before the Alcalde, where all the facts were elicit- 
ed, and the verdict of the jury was “Justifiable Homicide.” 

Thus ended the career of Wal Henderson, and his bones 
are now reposing on the little hill above the camp, where a 
score or more of others lie who have gone the same way. 


t>12 


STORIES OF THE 


CANNADY’S RANCH. 

Whoever crossed the Great Plains of Kansas and Colo- 
rado in the days of the “Prairie Schooner” or lumbering stage- 
coach, doubtless remembers that immense tract on the 
confines of New Mexico, known as Maxwell’s Ranch.” 

Lucien B. Maxwell was the ^companion and compeer of 
Kit Carson, and became famous in company with the latter 
as guide and hunter on the earlier exploring expeditions 
across the continent, particularly, that one of Fremont’s in 
1842-3. 

Shortly after the termination of his memorable march, 
Maxwell married a Mexican lady, and with her became the 
possessor of the large grant which to-day, goes by his name. 
It originally comprised more than half a million acres, and is 
situated in one of the most charming and picturesque portions 
of the Rocky Mountains. 

Within its area can be found the grandest peaks 
and canons of that whole region, at the foot of which 
nestle the loveliest and most fertile valleys in the world. 
The Cimarron and Moreno rivers — cool mountain streams — 
follow the sinuosities of their tortuous passage through the 
towering ranges of the tract, and Ute Creek, a rushing, foam- 
ing little torrent, splashes and sparkles in the sunshine, 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


213 


wherever the beetling walls of the canon that restrain its 
maddened waters, and the involvement of gnarled and knotted 
vines that overshadow it, will permit a ray of light to enter. 

Thirty years ago, the whole territory of New Mexico, in 
which “Maxwell’s Ranch” is located, was acquired by the 
United States under the Guadaloupe Treaty, and at that time 
was almost an unknown and unexplored country, except to 
the limited number of traders with far-off Santa Fe, and until 
within the last decade and a half, that portion of the mountains 
in which the events in our story occurred, revealed in all the 
grandeur and wildness of their primitiveness. But the march 
of civilization, in its ever-restless course westward, has com- 
pletely metamorphosed the whole aspect of the country phys- 
ically, and its condition socially. 

Now the land is full of harvests and green meads. The 
mighty and seemingly interminable woods, whose mingled 
branches covered the immense domain with a sea of foliage, 
almost excluding the sun, have fallen before the axe of the 
pioneer. The hardy yeomen of the crowded older states, 
have poured in upon the footsteps of the receding savage, 
and the magnificent highlands and prairies, over which but a 
short time since deep silence brooded, except when broken 
by the cry of the panther and wolf, or the still more appalling 
yell of the Indian, is now vocal with the thousand happy 
sounds of a busy industry. 

Where the solitary smoke of the red man’s wigwam curl- 
ed its thin wreath among the trees, can now be seen the 


214 


STORJES OF THE 


dense cloud from the stamp mill, or blacksmith shop, and 
instead of the frail canoe, emerging quickly from a dark inlet, 
the flume is carried over the hills, and empties its precious 
waters on the rich placers below. 

Our story opens in the spring of 1869, the date of which 
gold was discovered in the mountains and gulches of ‘ ‘Max- 
well’s Ranch.” For some years previously, it was known 
that copper existed in the region, and several shafts had been 
sunk, and tunnels driven in various places. The most im 
portant of the copper lodes, and the one in fact which 
Maxwell worked himself, was located near the top of Old 
Baldy, an immense mass of disrupted granite and other prim- 
itive rocks that rises some thirteen thousand feet above the 
level of the sea — whose summit, bare and cold — far beyond 
the timber limit, gave its name. 

The view from the rugged and storm-beaten crown of 
this grand old sentinel of the range is indescribably sublime. 
Far away to the north — more than ninety miles distant — the 
snow capped pinnacles of the twin Spanish peaks glisten and 
sparkle in the sunlight, and beyond them, the majestic Pike’s 
Peak hangs like a white cloud in the sky. 

Between these, and stretching indefinitely in the purple 
mist, to the south and west, rugged spurs of a dozen differ- 
ent chains throw their shadows over the landscape. On the 
east the great plains of Colorado — originating at the base of 
the Raton range— treeless, boundless, and illimitable as the 
ocean, lose themselves in the deep blue of the horizon, while 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


215 


far away to the northeast rises the Arkansas, which like a 
huge silver snake twists its silent way for more than a thou- 
sand miles to discharge its mighty volume of water into the 
great river. 

Gold was discovered early in 1867 by a party of pros- 
pectors, who were tunneling into the heart of Old Baldy in 
search of copper. When it became known that gold existed 
in paying quantities through all the mountains and gulches of 
the range, hundreds of miners flocked into the region, and 
before the end of the year had staked out their claims, and 
“Grouse,” “Willow,” “Humbug” and “Last Chance” 
were located, and a busy population were hard at work wash- 
ing out the glittering particles of precious metal with their 
ong toms, cradles, sluices and hydraulics. A company was 
formed, and a ditch constructed forty miles in length, from 
the head-waters of the Little Canadian or Red rivers to sup- 
ply the placers of the Moreno valley, when the water from 
the melting snows of Baldy range had exhausted itself. 

The richest diggings were situated about half way 
between the Santa Fe stage-road crossing on the Cimarron, 
and the old Mexico town of Taos, the home of Kit Carson. 
At this point, on the west bank of the Moreno river, and in 
the very heart of the mountains, a little settlement sprung up 
as if by magic, and in a few months boasted of a population 
numbering nearly two thousand. 

As in all mining camps, a most heterogeneous crowd 
composed the squatters in Elizabethtown, as the residents 


216 


STORIES OF THE 


there choose to call their little city in the mountains. In its 
rough but busy streets you could meet the tall and plodding 
Yankee fresh from the low hills of New England; the active 
restless Texan ; the jauntly-dressed commercial tourist, with 
his samples of bad whiskey and worse cigars ; the swarthy 
Mexican, with his broad sombrero and scarlet sash; the dark- 
er specimen of the genus homo , the negro; the Heathen 
Chinee, the old California “forty-niners,” and in fact all 
shades of nationalities. 

Nearly every state had its representative in the motley 
group, who had come to seek their fortune in this new El 
Dorado. 

It was an elegant place to study character — to learn how 
all the finer attributes of man can be completely crushed out 
by years of adversity; and how, under the same circum- 
stances, all that is noble and pure can retain its principles 
untainted and incorruptible, no matter how hellish and pesti- 
lent may be its surroundings. 

A characteristic of the east is formal "politeness, or cool 
and elegant impudence; that of the far West ignorance of all 
etiquette and honest hospitality. The distinction is not un- 
favorable to men. One can easily overlook their want of 
what people call manners, which generally mean nothing. If 
they are devoid of grace, ceremony and fashion, you may 
more confidently depend upon the sincerity of’ what they say 
or do. One cannot but admire their broad, brawny hands ; 
their sun-burnt honest faces ; and when in company of one 


217 


OLD SAj.;/T A FE TRAIL. 

of these — a man perchance who will pass away from the earth 
absolutely unacquainted with its enervating pleasures and 
splendors, and free from those exciting and corrupting influ- 
ences which too often deaden the feelings and warp the 
principles — you listen with respect to the honest phrases, and 
feel at once that you have fallen among friends. 

There is a genuine-frankness, a boldness without dissimula- 
tion, more fairness and honor in the unpolished native of the 
border than is usually found in an acquired politeness under 
the broadcloth exteriors of our populous cities in the east. 
Foolish grievances that disturb the order of a well-regulated 
town or village, often ending with a disgraceful street fight, 
rarely occur; an affront is seldom offered, because it is settled 
forever on the spot, and the revolver never drawn without 
accomplishing its purpose. 

An understanding of this mutual code, inelegant as it 
may seem to those who cannot appreciate it, has founded a 
state of society in which a saint might live without fear of 
insult, but which would quickly end the career of a bully. 

Occasionally bad men turn up, who run their course of 
“ deep damnation ” and become a terror to the whole country, 
but such men are wound up at last and “ die with their boots 
on” — western graveyards are full of them. 

Jack Cannady was one of this class, whose infernal 
operations in the Moreno mines, and summary death by his 
outraged fellow-miners is the subject of this sketch. 

As has been stated, the town was located on the west 

20 


218 


STORIES OF - HE 


bank of the Moreno, but its pretty situation, and something 
of its life, must be described, to familiarize the reader with 
the varied character, attractions, and occupations that go to 
make up the aggregate of a mountain mining camp. 

The timber extended from the immense bluffs behind the 
town almost to the edge of the river, and before a settlement 
could be fairly effected, the ax was called into requisition to 
let in the pleasant sunlight upon a portion of the slope and 
rich land of the intervale. Another margin of timber was 
confined to the banks of the stream, where, like a beautiful 
fringe, it followed the graceful windings of the golden water 
that flowed musically on in the deep shadow. 

When evening approached, and the setting sun threw a 
flood of silvery light on the white sandstone ledge that crown- 
ed the bluffs, and the purple mist began to steal over the val- 
ley, and the dark green of the belt of timber low down on the 
river bottom was thrown into deeper shade as the light gradu- 
ally faded away — and the crowning glory of all — when the 
last rays of the setting sun began their play of colors on the 
storm-beaten head of Old Baldy, there was presented one of 
the most gorgeous pictures in the world, far surpassing the 
storied beauty of the Italian landscape or the cold grandeur 
of the Alps. 

Besides the magnificence of its scenery and the scale of 
its distances, there is an enchantment pervading the very at- 
mosphere of the prairies and mountains, and the charm in- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


219 


tensifies in almost every nature as each new act and new ex- 
perience presents itself. 

There is an indescribable quiet reigning over the actual and 
visible of that “far off life ” which seems to touch every heart, 
and hardly any one who has tasted the exemption from the 
restraint imposed by the conventionalities of a so-called fash- 
ionable society — which the freedom of a life on the great 
plains or in the mountains permits — contentedly returns to 
an abridgement of that irrepressible degage within him, de- 
manded by the crowded civilization east of the Mississippi. 

The town consisted of four streets and the houses were 
generally of only one story, constructed of logs and adobe. 

In all mining camps there is concentrated the most varied 
population and promiscuous occupations conceivable — from 
merchants and tradesmen through all the degrees of legiti- 
mate business — and from the professional faro dealer down 
through all the multifarious inventions for gambling, to the 
swindling gift enterprise on a limited scale, and three-card 
monte. The susceptibility of the Mexican to the charms of 
these games of doubtful fortune is a marked characteristic, 
and those people perhaps made up one-fourth of the popula- 
tion. 

Notwithstanding such an aggregation of opposing ele- 
ments, and the idleness incident to such precarious means of 
support, confined, too, as it was to such a comparatively 
limited geographical area, the discipline of the place was fair, 
to say the least. In fact it would have been difficult to have 


220 


STORIES OF THE 


found a populous district in the east where better order was 
obtained, or where there was such an apparent disposition to 
obey the laws. 

But, of course, it can be accounted for by the fact that 
the “regulations” were made by the miners themselves, each 
man had a voice in it, and he was bound in honor to act him- 
self, at all times, as a guardian of the peace. Therefore, 
notwithstanding there were hundreds there to whose ears the 
shrill whistle of a bullet would sound sweeter than the soft 
tones of a flute, their perfect good nature and “principle cf 
honor among thieves,” kept them within reasonable bounds. 

Occasionally there were desperate fights over the gam- 
bling tables in the “hells” with which the camp was filled, 
and sometimes a too obstreperous individual, full of “bug 
juice” and fight, w^ould get a hole drilled into him by a num- 
ber forty-four pistol ball, or his ribs tickled with an eleven 
inch bowie. Often, under the excellent skill of the doctor, 
these would recover, but oftener took up their last claim of 
six feet by two in the “bone orchard,” as it was called, on 
the side of the mountain. 

Such an intensely varied population necessarily demand- 
ed amusements as varied to satisfy the diversity of tastes ag- 
gregated there. Consequently gambling in all its seductive 
mutability, horse racing, the sirenizing charms of the most 
depraved of the demi-monde and the bewitching enticements of 
music as an accessory to these corrupting entertainments, al- 
luringly met the ingenuous and unsuspecting among the 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


221 


checkered population at every footstep, some of whom, per- 
haps, were never before away from the virtuous influence of 
their rustic homes on the gentle slopes of the Texas prairies 
or the vine-clad hills of the older states. 

From early in the evening till broad daylight next morn- 
ing a concourse of musical strains floated upon the cool 
mountain air, ringing all the changes, from the jingling time 
of the “ Arkansas Traveler” or 4 ‘Devil’s Dream” on the 
wheeziest of fiddles, manipulated by some negro amateur, to 
the choicest gems of an opera in the delicate notes of a harp. 

The well disposed but sleepily inclined citizen could se- 
lect his lullaby from them, as it suited his fancy, for all through 
the night it was unflaggingly kept up. Nor did it cease when 
the sun cast his long rays on the little valley next day, but in 
the brightest hours the same weary round of tune continued, 
where in the shade of big trees and the retirement of the gam- 
bling “hells” and drinking saloons, the doubtful harmony 
might be heard enticing the unsophisticated to the mysteries 
of their interiors. 

Occasionally this enchantment of sweet melody was ac- 
companied with the coarse language of some lascivious song 
by a rough balladist, who was chorused by a dozen discordant 
voices gathered around a magic center, or the shuffling sound 
of huge feet kept time to the quick movement of an inspiring 

jig- 

The average miner would come into town as often as two 
or three times a week, and if fortunate in his diggings would 


222 


STORIES OF THE 


make for the first gaming table, to indulge in his favorite 
Mexican monte. Winning, he would decorate himself with 
an enormous stock of flash jewelry, harnessing his neck with 
a watch chain three or four yards long, and thus glitteringly 
attired “would make the rounds,” stopping at every saloon 
to treat the crowd, or kick up a fuss with the first man that 
got in his way. Losing — generally the rule — he went drunk 
and sulkily back to his claim, consoling himself with the hope 
of better success next time. And so the majority of lives 
were passed — not a few “died with their boots on” in some 
drunken quarrel with their friends to whom they had offered 
a real or fancied insult. 

Cannady was a tall, angular, villainous-looking specimen 
of humanity, who was born in Missouri, but whose fiendish 
acts in the Kansas free state struggles, had forced him to be- 
come an outlaw in the mountains of New Mexico, where, in 
one of their deep defiles, he squatted himself and married a 
native woman. Surly and reticent, usually, but pugnacious 
as a bull-dog when drunk, he always managed to kick up a 
row whenever he came into camp, and as certainly returned 
home with his head bandaged up, the result of encounters he 
had provoked in his midnight orgies around the town, or in 
quarrels over the gambling table. 

Cannady’ s Ranch was located at the entrance to Taos 
canon, about seventeen miles from the mining camp of Eliza- 
bethtown, on the main trail to Taos, to which it was nearly the 
same distance. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


223 


The spot Cannady had selected for his retreat was well 
calculated as a fit field for his diabolical deeds, notwithstand- 
ing the charm of its magnificent scenery. But of course i 
was not on account of any latent aesthetic sentiment of his 
nature that led him to choose this picturesquely beautiful nook 
in the mountains — it was because of its retirement and lone- 
liness — where he could operate boldly, with the chances of 
discovery reduced to the minimum of possibility. 

The unbroken wall of the canon rises abruptly for over 
a thousand feet on one side, where under its dark veil of 
shade the cabin stood, and at the opposite side, scarcely three 
hundred feet away, a corresponding mass of rock shoots up- 
ward to nearly the same height, forming the other wall. 

This fearful gap in the range was made untold ages ago 
by one of those terrible convulsions of nature, the effects of 
which are visible on every hand in the Rocky Mountains ; 
for it can plainly be seen that the walls of the canon were orig- 
inally closed, and what was once merely a huge fissure, time 
and erosion have worn into a respectable passage through the 
giant barrier. 

The entrance to the canon and its surroundings was a 
perfect wilderness of beauty. Little springs gushed out from 
the base of the tall granite cliffs that stood like towers amidst 
the dwarfed oaks nodding around them, and the babbling lit- 
tle rills as they trickled slowly over the smooth pebbles, sent 
up the music of their tuneful waters in sweet concert with the 
ever whispering pines. 


224 


STORIES OF THE 


At all seasons and for all hearts, forest scenery has a 
charm, and how, under the very mantle of such a gorgeous 
landscape, man can commit the most horrid crimes seems a 
mystery. 

Cannady’s cabin, with its bloody history, was the only 
object that clashed with the loveliness of its embosomment; 
it was constructed in the rudest style of back-woods architect- 
ure — of unhewn logs placed together at the ends, after the 
manner in which children build their houses of corn-cobs — 
and the interstices chinked up with mud. It had only three 
windows, and the door was formed out of a few pine shingles 
or rough clapboards, fastened together with wooden pins and 
hung on hinges of the same material. The roof was compos- 
ed of similar riven clapboards, which were kept in their place 
by long and heavy logs, laid lengthwise of the building at short 
intervals from each other, and over the whole, a mass of dirt 
some two feet thick was deposited. The floor of this hut, 
like all the houses in New Mexico, of the poor, was of earth, 
and the fire-place of the same substance. 

Cannady’s family consisted of his wife and his father-in- 
law, who both lived in constant dread of him and one child, 
which he afterward killed. 

The old Mexican, his father-in-law, had cleared a little 
garden-patch around the cabin, where he and his daughter 
raised a few onions, sweet potatoes and melons, but Cannady’s 
ostensible occupation was that of a sort of inn-keeper, where 
travelers on their way to Taos could get a drink of the villain 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


225 


ous compound sold in that region, under the name of liquor, 
or feed their animals while they smoked a poor cigar or a 
pipe full of worse tobacco. 

At times Cannady would make his appearence in camp 
with large amounts of money, causing considerable specula- 
tion among the honest miners and the gamblers, where an 
how he had raised such a “stake.” If such hints were 
thrown out in his presence, or if he was directly asked the 
question by some one bolder than the rest, his reply was in- 
variably, “I’ve been up to Taos, damn you, and win it, is 
it any o’ your business ?” 

During the intensely exciting times of prospecting 
through the different ranges for quartz leads in the early weeks 
of the discovery of gold and silver in that region, two young 
Indians one morning brought down to Maxwell, a gunny sack 
half full of gold-bearing rock, which they told him they found 
beyond Cannady’s ranch in the lower end of the Taos range. 

Maxwell, anxious to develop the matter, and eager to 
obtain more specimens, furnished the boys with animals and 
provisions to secure undoubted proof of what he considered 
a “rich strike.” 

The Indians set out on their journey of discovery early 
the next morning, and when they came to the mouth of the 
canon where Cannady lived, they separated, one taking a 
short cut over the mountains by the trail, and the other going 
up the canon to Cannady’s for water. They were to have 


226 


STORIES OF THE 


met two miles beyond, in the canon, west of the ranch, but 
they never saw each other again. 

Two days afterward, the mule which the boy rode who 
had gone to Cannady’s, was found in the Cimarron canon all 
alone, browsing on his way back to Maxwell’s. No trace of 
the missing boy could be found, and the tribe to which he 
belonged, and who were friendly to the whites, declared that 
he had been murdered by some Americans. 

Maxwell, upon whom the whole Ute nation looked as 
their father, endeavored to talk them out of what he consid- 
ered a ridiculous idea, but he could not remove the impress- 
ion from their minds. 

Nearly two months had elapsed and the matter had al- 
most ceased to receive any more thought, when, one after- 
noon, two miners of Elizabethtown, on their way back from 
Taos, on approaching Cannady’s ranch — who happened to 
be away at the time — discovered a half starved Mexican dog 
tugging and pulling at something he had evidently unearthed 
a short distance from the rear of the cabin. 

Curiosity led them to dismount, tie their mules and in- 
vestigate what the cur was apparently so interested in. Their 
examination showed it to be the leg of a human being, and 
on further search, discovered the body of the Indian boy 
with his skull split open as if done with an axe. 

The news of the discovery of the murder of the missing 
Ute was imparted to only a few of the best citizens of Eliza- 
bethtown, who immediately took measures for the arrest of 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


227 


Cannady, knowing that if the Indians discovered it, they 
would break out and probably massacre the whole settlement. 
Cannady was taken by surprise one morning and brought to 
town before the Alcalde. But meanwhile, some way or other, 
the Indians became aware of the facts, and it was only 
through the good counsels of Maxwell they were finally 
bought off, and a terrible slaughter prevented. When the 
Indians were made acquainted with the tragic fate of the boy 
of their tribe, and knew that he had been brutally murdered 
by the desperado Cannady, they declared their determina- 
tion of avenging his death. Maxwell, fearing that some in- 
nocent white man would be killed, whom* their roving bands 
might mistake for Cannady, resolved to effect an amicable 
settlement of the affair if possible, rather than that the chief 
should give the order to his warriors to hunt for Cannady. 

The excellent counsel of Maxwell prevailed, and the 
Indians were pacified by his presenting each of the boy’s 
immediate relations with a pony, and the citizens of Elizabeth- 
town contributing money, provisions and ammunition. Thus, 
through Maxwell’s perfect knowledge of the Indian character, 
and his timely intervention, a war with one of the most power- 
ful tribes was averted, for the Indians had fully made up their 
minds to put on their war-paint, and first of all, in their con- 
templated depredations, threatened to kill every white man in 
the mines. Maxwell did not hesitate, however, to tell the 
chief with whom he made arrangements, that if any of them 
ever came across Cannady, and they were sure of their man, 


228 


STORIES OF THE 


no trouble would ensue “if they killed him right in his 
tracks.” 

In the course of Cannady’s examination before the Al- 
calde in town, some of the facts in relation to the boy’s death 
were elicited from Cannady’s Mexican wife. She stated that 
the young Indian had called at the ranch, and that her hus- 
band was out in the hills somewhere with his rifle, tempo- 
rarily ; that she gave the boy a bowl of coffee to drink, and 
while peaceably sitting enjoying her proffered refreshment, 
the bloodthirsty man slipped in quietly behind him, holding 
in his hand a hatchet, with which he struck him in the head 
two or three times, cleaving his skull and killing him instantly. 
He then took him by the heels, dragged him a few rods in 
the rear of the house, and there buried him, where his body 
was discovered by the prowling, half starved cur. 

There were no organized courts in that particular region, 
and the result was that Cannady was released, and returned 
with the woman to the ranch. Policy, perhaps, dictated this 
course, which, under all the circumstances — too complicated 
to be explained in this sketch — was the best at the time. 

After Cannady had returned to the ranch, and there was 
no longer anything to fear from the Indians, nothing dis- 
turbed the usual tranquillity of the camp into which daily new 
adventurers thronged and new business opened, as the re- 
quirements of the bustling little place demanded f r nearly 
three months after the murder of the Ute boy. Then, early 
one afternoon, Cannady rode into camp in the greatest ex- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


229 


citement, announcing that he had found the dead body of 
some unknown man, lying on the trail near his ranch, shot 
through the heart, and, scattered around in every direction, 
a considerable amount of fractional currency — that he had 
left him just as he had discovered him, and had hurried into 
town to give the alarm — stating, in his opinion, that hostile 
Indians had done the work, and advising that a mounted 
party be formed to scour around the mountains in the vicinity 
of the canon to follow up the trail if possible. 

The camp was all impatience and restlessness under the 
news, and in less than an hour, twenty-three men were mount- 
ed, well armed, and with three day’s rations, were on their 
way to the Taos range with Cannady as their guide. Reach- 
ing the ranch in a short time they found the body of the mur- 
dered man as Cannady had described, who was immediately 
recognized as Billy Edwards, well known through the mines 
as an industrious, prospering miner, quiet, orderly and re- 
spected by all who knew him. Only a few days previously 
he had sold out his claim, and purchasing a pack animal had 
started for Santa Fe via Taos, with all he possessed in the 
world secured about his person and on the back of his little 
“burro.” 

The appearance of his body and the money scattered 
around him all led to the confirmation of Cannady’s story, 
and expressed suspicions that the Indians had killed him. 
No one in the crowd for a moment thought of implicating 
Cannady in the affair— in fact, he appeared as eager as any 
21 


230 


STORIES OF THE 


to trace the murder to its author, and make an extended 
scout among the hills. Three days were spent by the party 
in fruitless search for some trace of Indians, but not a sign 
could be discovered, and they returned to the camp with the 
remains of the unfortunate Edwards, and buried them in the 
little hill just north of the town, already dotted over with the 
graves of many murdered men. The matter was not dropped 
but talked over constantly, for Edwards was beloved by every 
one. Little knots of miners and mountaineers could be seen 
almost any time around the stores and saloons discussing the 
question of the murder, and each advancing his own theory 
of how “poor Billy” was surprised and killed. 

Now and then some would hint that Cannady knew more 
about the killing than many supposed he did. One, who was 
more emphatic in his assertions than others, declared most 
decidedly at a discussion in the hotel over the affair : “To 
be sure nobody knows what Cannady’s been about, but it 
isn’t honest people that do what they have to do in the dark ; 
he always has oceans of cash, and now where does he get it ; 
that’s what I want to know ?” 

It was only a few days afterward that some prospectors, 
who had come down to the mines from Taos, stated that 
Cannady had just been up there on a terrible spree, and had 
lots of money, which he used freely in drinking and gam- 
bling. So, immediately upon this news, the two miners 
who had intimated more strongly than the others that Can- 
nady could tell more about Edwards death than any one else, 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL, . 


231 


started for his ranch one evening without letting any of the 
rest of the camp know of their expedition. When they 
reached the place they found it vacated, as they supposed it 
would be, as it was Cannady’s custom whenever he left for 
Taos or Elizabethtown to shut up his cabin and send his wife 
and father-in-law to some of their relatives to stay during 
his absence. 

The two men determined to take advantage of this aspect 
of affairs, and make a thorough investigation of the ranch 
and its surroundings to discover if possible some foundation 
for the conjectures they had formed of Cannady’s mode of 
life, and his murderous proclivities as they believed. A short 
distance from the ranch, and just inside a little clump of thick 
timber, the remains of a recent fire were found, and in stirring 
over the pile of ashes a lot of partly charred bones were ex- 
posed, which they carefully collected and put in a sack. Not 
far off another heap of ashes was discovered, and a similar 
collection of bones were made. 

On entering the cabin, which they now no longer had any 
hesitancy in doing, they found in the corner of the room 
used as a kitchen, a spot where the dirt-floor yielded 
under the pressure of their feet, and which looked as if it had 
been recently disturbed. Taking a spade that hung on a peg 
in the wall, they dug down about two feet, and unearthed 
the mutilated fragments of a human body. 

Putting a portion of the remains in a sack, they care 


232 


STORIES OF THE 


fully replaced the dirt, so that the floor appeared as they had 
found it, and returned to camp with the sack of bones. 

The result of their trip was disclosed to only a few, and 
a secret meeting was held the same evening to devise the best 
measure to capture Cannady — whose hellish-life was now 
manifest — before he became alarmed and escaped out of the 
country. 

The next morning, learning from some parties who had 
just passed the ranch that Cannady had returned, it was deci- 
ded that not a momont should be lost in the attempt to secure 
the murderous villain, and accordingly it was planned that 
ten picked men should start immediately for his den, but 
instead of going directly to his door, should keep past his 
cabin, singing and laughing and appear generally jolly, as if 
they were only bent on a spreeing trip to Taos, while he, no 
doubt, observing that the crowd were not going to halt, would 
make his appearance and call them back. 

The proposition was immediately acted upon, and the 
ruse worked perfectly, for no sooner had they come within a 
hundred yards of the ranch, and were, to all appearance, 
going by, than Cannady came outside and hailed them with 
‘ 4 Hello fellows,” ain’t you going to stop? Where are you 
bound ? ” 

The party held a brief consultation, apparently further 
to carry out their plan, and then one of them called out: 
“ Got anything to drink in there, Cannady?” 

4 ‘Yes,” he replied, “ lots of it ? come in.” 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


233 


“Say we do, boys,” said the first speaker ; and they all 
turned toward the house, dismounted, and hitched their 
horses to the trees outside. 

No sooner had they all entered than a break was made for 
Cannady, and in a moment half a dozen revolvers were 
pulled out of their belts, and “they had the drop on him.” 
Their business was explained in a very few words, they told 
him what they knew — and if he made a move, they would 
“ blow the top of his head off.” 

He was bound hand and foot with a couple of lariat 
ropes, and tossed into a wagon that the party had brought 
with them, but which, until they wanted it, remained out of 
sight down the trail. His Mexican wife and father-in-law 
were also taken to town as witnesses. 

As soon as they reached the camp, Cannady was first 
heavily shackled at the blacksmith shop, and then lodged 
in a little log building, improvised as a jail, which was 
guarded by two plucky miners. 

For two or three days the ranch was searched for the 
purpose of making further discoveries in Cannady’s bloody 
work, and before a week had passed, the remains of seven- 
teen bodies were found buried inside and outside the cabin. 
Charred fragments of skeletons were hidden in various places 
in the vicinity, and it was supposed that many others besides 
those whose bones were found, had been murdered by Can- 
nady, and left in the mountains just where he had killed 
them, and were eaten by the wolves. 


234 


STORIES OF THE 


Frequently miners would leave for other portions of the 
territory, to be absent only a few days, but nothing was 
ever heard of them afterward. They probably never got 
beyond Cannady’s ranch, where they stopped for a drink, or 
to rest for a few moments, only to be killed and robbed by 
that mountain assassin. 

How many a mother, or young wife has suddenly ceased 
to hear from an adventurous son, or husband, who was seek- 
ing his fortune in the “far west,” and whose fate was to 
become the victim of such fiends in human shape as Can- 
nady, will never be known, for their number is one of the 
horrid secrets that is buried in the grave with them and their 
murderer. Perhaps some, under whose eyes these facts may 
fall, will find a possible reason for the protracted absence of 
one who has been looked for for years, but who will never 
come. 

After the horrid developments at the ranch, threats were 
made by the exasperated miners to lynch Cannady at once, 
but they finally determined that he should have a fair and 
impartial trial, by a jury of twelve men, to be selected by 
himself; that a judge should be selected by the crowd; he 
to appoint a prosecuting attorney and counsel for the de- 
fense. 

As soon as it was agreed in camp to give Cannady a 
chance for his life, the “ fandango hall ” of Joe Stenson’s 
“Miner’s Saloon,” was selected as the court room, and the 
trial set for eight o’clock that evening. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


235 


At the hour appointed the crowd began to gather, and 
in a little while the room was packed with as motley and as 
hard a looking mob as ever got together in the West. It was 
a curious mixture of ignorance, manhood, vice, virtue and 
villainy. Some of the truest men that ever lived stood in 
that dimly-lighted little black room ; and some hearts were 
here too, as deeply-dyed — if the truth were known as Can- 
nady’s. Miners, merchants, gamblers and Mexicans wer e 
mixed promiscuously, and the determined faces, and show of 
revolvers spoke plainly enough, “ there wasn’t going to be 
any fooling ” in the matter. The red light of a blazing fire, 
made of dry pine knots, nearly as combustible as powder, 
shot up the dark chimney-place in the corner, throwing a 
glimmering and confused mist over the brindled crowd assem- 
bled there, and the fitful glimmer of three or four untrim- 
med kerosene lamps, threw weird shadows on the white- 
washed walls, as if the ghosts of the murderer’s victims had 
come to be phantom witnesses of his agony and bitterness. 

Tom Pollock, an excellent citizen and veteran miner, 
was unanimously chosen judge, and Cannady, of course, 
had the good sense to pick his jury from the very best ele- 
ment in the place. The prosecuting attorney was a young 
lawyer who happened to be in the tamp, and a young man, 
assessor of internal revenue at the time, volunteered to 
defend the case, whose offer was readily accepted by both 
the judge and Cannady. 

The preliminaries being now all arranged, the prisoner 


236 


STORIES OF THE 


was brought in by his guards, seated on a cracker box in front 
of the jury, and by the side of his youthful counsel and only 
friend in the whole crowd. 

There were the usual oaths administered, every man 
understanding perfectly his position, and acting upon the 
fearful responsibility demanded by the situation of affairs in 
that isolated region, and the necessity of summary justice, no 
matter on whose head it might fall. 

In a few pithy sentences, Judge Pollock told Cannady 
the object of their gathering, and reviewed the terrible crimes 
that had been traced to his den. He pointed to the ghastly 
remains and charred fragments of human skeletons that lay 
piled upon a rude pine table before him, which had been 
dug up inside of his ranch, and in the timber in its vicinity, 
and asked him how he could look upon that loathsome and 
horrid sight, without expecting the vengeance of God to strike 
him dead in his tracks. The Judge grew almost eloquent in 
his recitation of Cannady’s damnable deeds, and a death like 
stillness pervaded the place, as the words fell hot and earnestly 
from his lips, broken only by the convulsive click of a revolver 
now and then when the excitement intensified; and, but for 
the sound advice to “give the miserable wretch a square 
deal,” the trial would have ended right there. 

When the Judge had finished, Cannady, whose cheeks 
were ashen pale, his eyes distended and tearless, riveted his 
gaze on the determined men before him, utterly at a loss what 
to do or say, and distracted alternately by hope and fear, for 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


237 


he felt the enormity of his guilt, and knew in his cowardly 
heart he deserved death right then, without the least show of 
mercy. 

The prosecuting attorney stated, in opening the case, that 
he had not much to say, and only referred to the manner in 
which Cannady selected his victims, and the extreme caution 
he had always exercised to avoid murdering well-known resi- 
dents of the camp; understanding perfectly their sudden 
disappearance from the community would excite suspicion 
and lead to an exhaustive search of their whereabouts. He 
showed how Cannady had always singled out for the consum- 
mation of his diabolical ends some poor miner who, perhaps, 
had only a nick-name — alone and penniless, en route for 
some other portions of the country ; some isolated, reticent 
man, who seldom or never held much communication with 
others in the camp. That he was too cowardly to kill a well- 
known merchant or citizen of the town — all of these could 
pass a night securely at his ranch; to them he would extend 
a rough, generous hospitality, and at the same time endeavor 
to impress upon their minds the danger of a trip through the 
mountains without an escort ; that the Indians were treacher- 
ous, and prowling over the hills constantly; besides there 
were numbers of outlaws and highwaymen, who sought the 
solitude of the mountain fastnesses to murder and rob ; that 
he would tell them of his own marvelous escapes and terri- 
ble hand-to-hand encounters with desperadoes, all for the 
effect it might have in drawing suspicion from himself ; that 


238 


STORIES OF THE 


those whom he would gladly have killed he did not dare to, 
and they only had been saved from the clutches of this blood- 
thirsty terror of the mountains by the very cowardice of his 
nature. He scathed Cannady fearfully, working up a more 
exasperated feeling if possible than before against him, and 
then called in his witnesses. 

The doctor was the first to testify, and his evidence, 
confined to the character of the charred bones, settled any 
question as to the possibility of their not being those of hu- 
man beings. 

The two miners, who had made the horrid discoveries 
at the ranch, then related to the jury their simple story, de- 
scribing accurately on a plain board, with a piece of burnt stick 
the location of the cabin, its surroundings, and the position 
of the ash heaps. They made a graphic if not artistic sketch, 
with their rude pencil, and its effect upon the crowd and the 
jury was manifested by expressions addressed indirectly to 
Cannady more emphatic than elegant, but which the judge in 
a few moments succeeded in suppressing. 

Antonio Montoyo — Cannady’s Mexican father-in-law — 
who could speak nothing but Spanish, was questioned through 
an interpreter, and his plain recital of what he had seen left 
no possible hope for Cannady. He told his story of one 
coldblooded murder he had witnessed as follows: “One 
evening a stranger came to the ranch and wanted to stay al* 
night; he was put in the same room with me, where I was 
lying on the floor. After the stranger was fast asleep, Can- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


239 

nady cautiously entered the room with a candle in one hand 
and a revolver in the other. I was wide awake at the time 
but did not dare to speak. Cannady then softly approached 
the bed on which the stranger lay, and who was sound asleep, 
put the muzzle of the pistol against his left temple and fired. 
The murdered man never moved or made a sound, and I 
jumped up, when Cannady threatened to serve me the same 
way if ever I breathed a word of what I had seen. Cannady 
then ordered me to hold the light while he examined the 
wound. The man was large, and had a long red beard ; 
there was a small hole in his temple, and one in the back of 
his head. I was afraid he would kill me, and when he told 
me to go and bring him a bucket of water, I ran up the canon 
and did not stop until I reached Taos. I never knew what 
he did with the body, and he never spoke to me about the 
murder afterward.” 

Cannady’s wife, a young Mexican girl, apparently too 
youthful for either wife or mother, was called, and through 
the interpreter stated that she had witnessed a number of 
murders at the ranch, but had been afraid to say a word, be- 
cause Cannady always swore he would kill her if she did ; but 
when he murdered her child in the most cruel and atrocious 
manner right before her eyes, she made up her mind that she 
would expose his bloody life as soon as she could find a safe 
opportunity. 

Her testimony was clear and distinct, and she exhibited 
no trace of emotion as she gazed with her girlish face upon 


240 


STORIES OF THE 


her cold-blooded husband, who cowed before her dark eyes. 

A host of others gave in their evidence, all implicating 
Cannady directly or indirectly with a whole series of butcher- 
ies, and whose unanimous opinion was “that he deserved the 
death of a dog.” 

Cannady had no witnesses to offer in his defense, but 
made a rambling incoherent sort of a speech, in which, of 
course, he denied all the terrible crimes that had been imputed 
to him, acknowledging only the murder of the Ute boy, whom, 
he had declared, he had killed in self-defense to save his 
family. 

Every word the hardened wretch uttered, however, had 
only tended to confirm the minds of the jury and the oth- 
ers present of his guilt, and after half an hour of successive 
contradictions and weak argument, he sat down. 

The prosecuting attorney submitted the fate of the ac- 
cused to the jury without discussing the points of the case; 
he felt it would only be consuming valuable time, and if there 
was anything to be said, let the defense offer it. 

The counsel for the defense, though in his own mind 
convinced of the deep-dyed villainy of his brutal client, felt 
it incumbent upon him to make an appeal in his behalf, which 
he did so eloquently, and built up hypotheses so rapidly that 
some of the rougher element, afraid that his efforts might be 
effectual, became rather demonstrative and crowded around 
him in a somewhat too serious manner, but were quieted b 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


241 


a few positive words from the judge — a rather decided but 
not particularly pleasant compliment to his forensic ability. 

The judge made another one of his significant addresses 
in his charge in submitting the case to the jury, reminding 
them that if their verdict should be unanimous, according to 
the secret arrangement, Cannady would be executed immedi- 
ately after they had returned it in front of the saloon in 
which the trial was held, but if a single dissenting vote was 
cast, he should be remanded to jail, and await a regular trial 
at the next term of the district court, at Taos. 

It was midnight when the fate of Cannady was given to 
the twelve men whom he himself had chosen, and for an 
hour they deliberated upon the question of summary punish- 
ment, when they stood eleven for death, and one for a regu- 
lar trial according to law. 

They so reported, and that one dissenting vote saved 
Cannady’s life that night, and he was locked up in the 
little log jail again, doubly shackled, and guarded by an ad- 
ditional force. 

The crowd sulkily submitted to the decision, but a good 
many threats were muttered about “getting even with him,” 
“having his heart’s blood,” etc. The excitement subsided, 
however, in the morning, and the camp gradually resumed 
its normal condition. 

Four or five days after the midnight trial in “Stensons’ 
saloon” another prospecting party, just in from the mountains, 
rode into town with the head of the unfortunate victim so 
22 


242 


STORIES OF THE 


accurately described by the Mexican father-in-law of Canna- 
dy in his evidence before the court. 

There was the “hole in the left temple,” and the other 
“in the back of the head.” The features were considerably 
decomposed, but long masses of sandy beard still adhered to 
the face, and the remains were at once recognized as those of 
Major Over, formerly from Ohio, who had left the mines at 
the time of his murder for Santa Fe. 

This confirmatory proof of Cannady’s atrocities aroused 
the indignation of the people again — which wa* only slumber- 
ing, and another secret meeting was called. 

A little after midnight, the hour agreed upon, about 
twenty determined men met in the back of one of the little 
log stores, heavily armed, and their faces disguised with 
masks improvised for the occasion. 

The dingy looking place was lighted by a few tallow- 
candles that shed a dim, sallow haziness over the piles of ba- 
con, kegs of powder, picks, shovels, and other miner’s goods, 
which were stored there, and upon the strange looking faces 
assembled to mete out that justice which they believed had 
been too long delayed. 

The doctor who resided in the camp, had been invited 
to be present, and was there, not to exercise an active part 
in the summary vengence about to take place, but rather for 
the purpose of drawing out some information from the doom- 
ed man at the place of execution concerning those whom he 
had murdered, in order that relatives or friends might be in- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


243 


formed of the time and manner of their death, and the fate of 
the murderer. 

After half an hour spent in discussion relative to a 
plan of operations, finally it was agreed that the party should 
meet at the same hour the next night just outside the camp, 
at the Taos trail crossing of Ute creek, from there go to the 
jail, take Cannady out and hang him. 

After these preliminaries had been arranged a solemn 
oath was sworn to carry out their plans, and the little assem- 
bly broke up to come together again on the following night 
at the appointed rendezvous. 

Nothing disturbed the usual routine of the camp next day, 
and not a suspicion was entertained that Cannady was so soon 
to meet the tragic fate he richly deserved. 

The hours dragged their weary length along, and the de- 
termined men who had sworn to avenge the horrible butch- 
eries of Cannady were impatient for night to come that their 
work might be consummated. 

Anon the evening came, walking noiselessly over the 
mountains. The clouds that had hung over the valley all 
day like a pall, broke apart in painted masses, and behind 
their tinseled fragments the blazing sun with broadened disc, 
lingered in the west for a few moments, shedding a rich and 
shifting radiance over the landscape, which soon faded into 
the deep eventide as the day-light sank behind the hills that 
overshadowed the town. 

The pines, the valley, the foaming torrent, and the little 


244 


STORIES OF THE 


camp all retired from view as if they wished to go to sleep be- 
neath the friendly shadows. 

Calm and beautiful with troops of stars overhead, a deep 
and reverent silence stole over the place as if the justice of 
Heaven looked down upon the act that was to be committed, 
when the men who had sworn to keep their pledges march- 
ed out silently into the night, and met at Ute creek ford. 

Consulting together for a few moments under the trees 
on the bank, their plans were hastily formed and put into op- 
eration at once. 

Reaching the vicinity of the rude log jail, they stopped 
to reconnoiter, and finding everything quiet, four of them 
went up to the door and knocked. 

The summons was promptly answered, and as soon as 
the door swung open in rushed the masked men, who over- 
powered the guard and disarmed them in a moment. 

Cannady was bound hand and foot, tied on a litter that 
the party had improvised at the creek, and without a whisper 
they took up their line of march for the place of execution. 

Three quarters of a mile away, through a deep canon in 
the hills, was a little opening where a corral and a slaughter 
pen had been constructed in which the cattle used by the 
miners were killed. Here in the forks of two contiguous 
trees an unhewn portion of another was laid. 

In one end of this transverse stick holes had been bored, 
and four stout pieces of timber about three inches thick and 
ten feet long inserted, which served as a rough wheel and 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


245 


axle, upon which the dead beeves were hoisted — now to be 
turned into a scaffold! 

To this lonely spot the murderer and his excutioners 
journeyed on their silent expedition. 

Nothing broke the almost painful stillness as the un- 
flinching little procession marched under the hushed shadows 
of the mountains piled up into the calm firmanent above 
them, until they reached the opening where the slaughter pen 
stood. 

Then, suddenly the dismal cry of a pack of wolves 
reverberated through the hills, as driven by the approaching 
tramp of feet from their midnight feast of half-dried hides, 
they stole to the edge of the timber. 

But soon their horrid howls grew more distant, melted 
away, and deep silence brooded over the scene again. The 
masked men then formed a semicircle around the doomed 
man, lighted torches that they had brought with them, and 
commenced their horrid work. 

Cannady with his arms and ankles tied and heavily iron- 
ed, sat crouching on the blood-stained floor of the slaughter 
pen, while the sickly light from the torches glared upon the 
disguised faces of his executioners and his shaggy hair, adding 
still more horror to the strange scene. 

The doctor, the only one beside the prisoner unarmed 
and without disguise, then stepped in front of Cannady, who 
in trembling voice asked him what all this meant. 

The doctor said to him that he ought to understand by 


246 


STORIES OF THE 


this time from the preparation that had been made, and the 
determined course that had been pursued by those who had 
brought him there, that his stay on this earth was of short 
duration. 

He said to the miserable wretch: “ After a fair and 
impartial trial, and the discovery of overwhelming proofs of 
your murderous course, you are about to expiate the foul and 
unwarrantable crimes of which you have been adjudged 
guilty. 

“ I come to you not as one of your executioners, but to 
learn if possible during the last moments of your life the names 
of your unknown victims, whose scattered bones and ghastly 
skeletons only have been found. 

“I come for the purpose of hearing your confession before 
you are launched into eternity to meet your God. 

“ Of those known to have been killed by your hands I 
desire first of all to know about, Edwards, who was found 
murdered by the trail near your ranch. What have you 
to say in relation to that ? ” 

“ As God is my judge,” replied Cannady, “ I never laid 
eyes on Edwards until I found him dead, with the currency 
scattered around him just as I reported it in camp.” 

“ Where did you hide the remains of California Joe, who 
left the mines and was never seen after he entered the Taos 
canon ? ” continued the doctor in his inquiries. 

“The last time I saw Joe,” Cannady said “was when 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


247 


he passed my ranch on his way to the Burro Mountains, and 
I don’t know where he is.” 

The doctor then asked him some questions in relation ta 
the sudden disappearance of Major Over, but Cannady, who 
had learned nothing of the fact that the head of the unfor- 
tunate Major had been found buried under the floor of his 
cabin, answered that he had never seen Over after he left his 
ranch early one afternoon for Santa Fe. “ I have no idea 
of his whereabouts,” said Cannady to the doctor’s pressing 
questions. “ He probably is in the mountains somewhere, 
murdered by the Apaches, for all I know.” 

Thus the hardened wretch continued to lie as the interroga- 
tories were pressed upon him, and no appeal was strong 
enough to draw out a single word of confession, and any hope 
of information was abandoned, so the doctor left him in dis- 
gust. 

All the preparations being in readiness for the final act of 
the tragic scene, Cannady was lifted upon a rude platform 
under the beam stretching between the two trees, where he 
sat for a moment crouching and trembling, now fully under- 
standing the horrible death that awaited him, when, with a 
kick and the terse phrase, “ stand up you murdering hound,” 
one of his executioners helped him to his feet. The rope 
was now secured to the beam, and the noose placed around 
Cannady’s neck. In the next instant three of the stoutest 
men in the party seized him and threw him bodily fully five 
feet into the air, and, being a man of huge frame, as he . 


248 


STORIES OF THE 


came back on the end of the rope with his whole weight, his 
death was almost instantaneous. 

The torches were immediately extinguished, and the 
crowd quickly dispersed, leaving the body of Cannady dang- 
ling from the windlass in the deserted slaughter pen. 

Early the next morning, just as the sun began to peep 
over the towering heights of Baldy range and flood the little 
valley with its golden light, some one who happened to ride 
into town from the direction of the canon where the lynching 
had taken place, saw the body of Cannady, and in a few mo- 
ments the little camp was all astir, as the news of Cannady’s 
execution was heralded through the mountains and gulches. 

Soon crowds were wending their way up the canon to the 
old slaughter pen, where the body of the murderer still re- 
mained unmolested, hanging too high to be reached by the 
wolves who had evidently been prowling around him during 
the night. 

The Alcalde made his appearance, and immediately sum- 
moned a jury from those present, examined one or two per- 
sons to find out something about the affair, but all without 
eliciting a single fact. 

He then ordered the body cut down, and the doctor to 
examine it, who stated that death was ‘‘caused by complete 
dislocation of the cervical vertebrae . n 

The guards at the jail swore they did not hear a word 
spoken when Cannady was forcibly taken from them, and 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


249 


they could not recognize a single one of the party on account 
of their perfect disguise. 

The jury retired for a few moments, and, after a short 
deliberation, returned the verdict, “that Cannady came to 
his death by hanging, which was done by some person or 
persons unknown.” 

An application was then made by the doctor for the body 
for examination, he promising to bury it without expense to 
the town if his request should be granted. 

Upon this the Alcalde called out to the crowd, “All 
those in favor of letting the doctor have the murderer’s 
remains for scientific examination will manifest it by saying 
aye?” A universal shout of affirmation rang through the- 
hills in response to the Alcalde's question. Contrary minded, 
no, cried the Alcalde. A solitary “no” was uttered by a 
miner who sat on the top rail of the cattle-corral fence, 
swinging his long legs and pulling vigorously at a corn-cob 
pipe. 

“What’s you objection Bill,” said the Alcalde. 

“ I want to see a rope tied around the legs of the d — d 
villain, and help drag him to the mountain near his ranch 
and leave him there for the coyotes to finish him up,” replied 
Bill. 

This created a ripple of merriment, but the doctor 
secured the remains of Cannady, sent them to his office, pre- 
serving the murderer’s skull, which he kept on the shelf, and 
the remnant of the dissected body he placed in a rough pine 


250 


STORIES OF THE 


box, and buried in a grove on a little hill overlooking the 
camp, near, but not by the side of the murderer’s victims. 

Thus ended the career of one of the most bloodthirsty- 
villains that ever lived in the mountains of New Mexico. 
The deity whom he worshiped asked blood, and blood he 
gave him by a whole hecatomb of human lives. The jus- 
tice he merited was meted out to him, to the great relief and 
satisfaction of the whole community. 



OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


251 


GENERAL FORSYTH’S FIGHT ON THE “ ARRIC- 
KAREE FORK ” OF -THE REPUBLICAN. 

A DESPERATE CHAPTER IN KANSAS HISTORY. 

I was sitting in my office at Fort Harker, on a warm 
evening in the latter part of September, 1868, musing, over 
a pipe full of “ Lorie Jack,” upon the possible extent of the 
impending Indian war, (which had already been planned by 
General Sheridan, in the seclusion of my own quarters only 
the night before). It was rapidly growing dark; the somber 
line of the twilight curve had almost met the western hori- 
zon, and only the faintest tinge of purple beneath, marked 
the intermedium between the gloaming and the inkiness of 
the rayless sky. 

Nothing disturbed my reverie — as I wandered in imagi- 
nation over the bleak expanse of the Arkansas, Cimarron 
and Canadian rivers, so soon to be the scene of active opera- 
tions, except the monotonous clicking of the relay in the 
window of the next room, where the government night 
operator was on duty, who too was meditating in the dark- 
ness. 

The terrible massacre on Spillman Creek, only a few 
weeks before, still furnished food for revengeful thoughts 


252 


STORIES OF THE 


that would not down, as images of the murdered women and 
little ones rose in horrible visions upon “the thick night 
before me. 

The dismal howl of a hungry wolf, borne upon the 
still air from the timbered recesses of the “Smoky,” but 
added to the weird aspect that my surroundings were hurried- 
ly assuming, and there seemed some portentous and inde- 
scribable thing bearing down upon the place. 

Suddenly the operator — while the clicking of the instru- 
ments became more nervous and varied from their mono- 
tone of the whole evening — exclaimed: “My God! Major, 
what’s this?” What is what? said I, jumping from my 
chair and rushing to his side. 

Quickly lighting his little lamp and seizing his pencil, 
he wrote upon a blank, as I looked over his shoulder, and 
read — while the clicking grew more convulsive still — these 
words: * * * “ General Forsyth surrounded by Indians 

on the Republican; Lieut. Beecher, the Doctor and many 
of the scouts killed — nearly the entire command, including 
the General, wounded. Stillwell, one of the scouts, run the 
gauntlet of the savages and brings this report. Col. Car- 
penter, ioth Cavalry, and his command leave immediately to 
relieve them.” ******* 

This was a fragment of the whole dispatch going over 
the wires from Fort Hayes to Fort Leavenworth and Wash- 
ington, and we had taken enough of it to know that a terrible 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


253 


disaster had befallen the gallant Forsyth, of Sheridan’s staff, 
and his plucky band of scouts — all civilians and Kansans. 

The story of this fight — in many respects one of the 
most remarkable and desperate in the annals of our Indian 
wars— is particularly interesting now, since the State, in its 
wisdom, has established on a firm foundation, a Historical 
Society, in the archives of which are recorded the struggles of 
her settlement, whose chronicles make up a large and intense- 
ly thrilling portion of our American classics. 

While the Headquarters of General Sheridan — who was, 
at the date of this narrative, in command of the Department 
of the Missouri — were temporarily established at Fort Harker, 
where he was consummating his arrangements for a winter 
campaign against the hostile tribes, the idea suggested itself 
to him that a body of carefully selected men, composed of the 
best material to be found on the frontier, under the leadership 
of an experienced officer could effect excellent results. These 
scouts, as they were to be termed, were to go anywhere, and 
act entirely independent of the regularly organized troops 
about to take the field. 

Generals Custer and Sully — the next in rank to Sheridan, 
and both already famous as Indian fighters— coincided with 
this view of the Commanding General, and it was determined 
to equip fifty picked frontiersmen at once and commission 
Forsyth as their leader, who had, in the incipiency of the 
thing, modestly solicited the responsible position. 

The fifty men were chosen from an aggregate of more 
23 


254 


STORIES OF THE 


than two thousand employed by the Government in various 
positions at Forts Harker and Hays, and the reader may rest 
assured that only those were accepted who possessed the es- 
sential qualifications of indomitable courage, wonderful en- 
durance, perfect marksmanship, and a knowledge of the In- 
dian character. 

General Forsyth chose for his Lieutenant his particular 
friend, F. H. Beecher, of the 3d Infantry, a nephew of the 
celebrated Brooklyn preacher. 

Some days were occupied at Fort Harker in fitting out 
the little expedition, but no unnecessary equipage or super- 
fluous camp paraphernalia formed any part of the supplies. 

There were no tents or wagons; pack mules carried the 
commissary stores, which were of the simplest character, and 
as the object of the party was war its hnpedimenta were reduc- 
ed to the minimum. 

Each man was mounted on an excellent horse and his 
.armament consisted of a breech-loading rifle and two revol- 
vers. 

This troop of brave men left Harker for Hays in the lat- 
ter part of August, from which point their arduous duties 
were commenced. 

% 

On the 29th of that month all the preliminaries for taking 
the field having been completed, and their surgeon having 
joined (whose name I have unfortunately forgotten), they 
marched out of the Fort, and after scouting over a large 
area for several days without meeting any signs of the Chey- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


255 


ennes, they concluded to go to Wallace to recuperate and 
refit. 

Some time during the second week in September, the 
Indians made a raid on a government wagon train a short 
distance from a tank station on the Kansas Pacific Railroad 
about a hundred miles beyond Wallace, and as soon as the 
news reached the Fort, over the wires, Forsyth and his little 
band of scouts started to intercept the savages on their 
retreat. 

The next morning the scouts struck the fresh trail of the 
Indians, and by forced marches came so close to them that 
they compelled them to split into insignificant detachments, 
and night coming rapidly on the General lost the trail. The 
conclusion was, after a consultation with the best plainsmen 
among the party, that the Indians would naturally go north- 
ward, so it was determined to take that direction in pursuit. 

The scouts continued their course for more than a week 
without the most trifling incident to relieve the wearisome 
monotony of the march, until suddenly on the afternoon of 
the eighth day, as they were approaching the bluffs of the 
Republican river, they discovered an immense trail still lead- 
ing to the North. 

The signs indicated that a large body of warriors, with 
pack animals, women and children, and lodges of a big camp 
had recently crossed there. It was growing dark, and rather 
than take the chances of losing this trail in the night, it was 
determined to bivouac in the vicinity, rest the animals, and 



4 


V 



• * 




/TS 


9 


ON THE SCOUTS AT DAY-BREAK. 












OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


257 


continue the pursuit at the first streak of dawn. It was well 
that th s course was decided upon, or there would have been 
none left to tell the story of the fight, as the result will show. 
The spot selected for the bivouac had some slight strategic 
value, and was for that reason chosen by the General, though 
he had no idea at the time that any benefit would result from 
his judgment in this particular. It was an elongated low 
mound of sand (such as are seen at intervals in the Arkansas) * 
which a Fork (Arrickaree) of the Republican at this pcint em- 
braced as it were (as the Cheyenne does the Black Hills), 
and formed an island. If this trail had not been struck, it 
was the intention to have gone back to Wallace for provisions, 
as only sufficient for one day remained, but upon prospects 
of a fight it was unanimously agreed to go on and take the 
chances of something to eat. In the early gray of the next 
morning while the stars were still twinkling and sleep op- 
presses more than at any other hour, the sentinels posted on 
the hills above the island yelled “ Indians ! ” 

In a moment the camp was awake, and with rifle in hand 
each scout rushed for the lariat to which his horse was pick- 
eted, knowing, of course, that the first effort on the part of 
the Indians would be to stampede the animals. As it was, a 
small party of th^ savages dashed in with a horrid whoop, 
and shaking their buffalo robes, succeeded in running off a 
portion of the pack-mules, and one or two of the horses. 

A few shots fired by the most advanced of the scouts 


258 


STORIES OF THE 


scattered the Indians, and quiet reigned again for a few mo- 
ments. 

Almost immediately, however, and before the scouts had 
completed saddling their horses — which the general had or- 
dered — one of the guides nearest Forsyth happening to look 
up, could not help giving vent to the expression “Great 
God! General, see the Indians ! ” Custer, in his Life on the 
Plains, in referring to this fight says : “ Well might he be ex- 
cited. Over the hills, from the west and north, along the 
river, on the opposite banks, everywhere, and in every direc- 
tion they made their appearance. Finely mounted, in full 
war paint, their long scalp locks braided with eagles’ feathers, 
and with all their paraphernalia of a barbarous war party, 
with wild and exultant shouts, on they came ” 

It was a desperate looking preponderance of brute force 
and savage subtlety against the coolness and calm judgment 
of the disciplined soldier ; but he, without glancing at the hell 
in front, and all around him, with only the lines of deter- 
mination in his face a little more marked, and grasping the 
terrible picture before him, stoically ordered his men to take 
possession of the sand mound, with their horses, and then de- 
termined, almost against hope, to accept the wager of battle. 

It happened, fortunately, that on this island were grow- 
ing some stunted shrubs, to which the animals were fastened, 
their bodies forming a cordon, inside of which the luckless 
scouts prepared for the demoniacal charge which they knew 
must come with its terrible uncertainty in a few moments. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


259 


They had scarcely secured their horses before, like the shock 
of the whirlwind, on came the savages, and the awfully un- 
equal battle commenced. 

It was not yet daylight, and the Indians, taking advan- 
tage of the uncertain light, dismounted from their ponies, 
and creeping to within easy range, poured in a murderous 
fire upon the scouts. 

The Indians were splendidly armed, as usual, by the 
munificence of the government, or its apathy in preventing 
renegade white men or traders from supplying them. 

When the morning came, which had been anxiously 
waited for by the scouts, they then first realized their desper- 
ate situation. 

Apparantly as numerous as the sand grains of their little 
fortification, the Indians hemmed them in on all sides ; more 
than a thousand hideously painted and screaming warriors sur- 
rounded them, with all the hatred of the race depicted on 
their fiendish countenances, in anticipation of the victory 
which seemed so certain. 

Scattered among these, out of rifle range, were the 
squaws and children of the aggregated bands watching with 
gloating eyes the progress of the battle, while the hills re- 
echoed their diabolical death chant and the howling of the 
medicine-men and chiefs inspiring the young warriors to deeds 
of daring. 

No one can form the slightest conception of the horrid 
picture spread before the scouts, on the clear gray of that 


260 


STORIES OF THE 


morning, unless he or she has realized it in encounters with 
the hostile tribes on the Plains. Language is inadequate, 
and all attempts at word-painting fall so far short of the real- 
ity that it were better left wrapped in its terrible incompre- 
hensibleness. 

The General and his brave men took in their chances at 
a glance, but saw little hope in the prospect ; they determ- 
ined, however, never to be taken alive — a thousand deaths 
by the bullet were preferable to that — and made up their 
minds to fight to the bitter end, which would only come when 
the ammunition was exhausted or themselves killed. 

To this purpose they commenced to intrench as best they 
could, by scraping holes in the sand with the only implements 
at their command — their knives. They succeeded in making 
a sort of a rifle-pit of their position, but before the work was 
completed two of the scouts were killed outright and many 
wounded — among the latter the General himself. 

0wiii o to the dreadful firing of the Indians, who contin- 
uously charged down upon the “ island, ” the Doctor was 
compelled to abandon his care of the wounded and become 
a combatant ; he did excellent work with his rifle, but a bul- 
let soon pierced his brain and he, too, fell over dead. 

In a few seconds after the Doctor’s death, in the midst 
of a terrible onset by the Indians, the General was again 
struck near the ankle, the ball perforating the bone as per. 
fectly as if done with an auger. 

The fire of the scouts had not, all this time, been with- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


261 


out telling effect upon the Indians — many a painted warrior 
had bitten the dust before the sun was two hours high. At 
each successive charge of the red-skins the scouts, cool, care- 
ful and deliberate, took aim , and when their rifles were dis 
charged each put a savage hors du combat — there was no am- 
munition wasted. 

Nor had the besieged escaped from the fearful onsets of 
their enemies; besides the casualities related, nearly all the 
horses had been killed — in fact before noon all but one had 
fallen — and it is related that when he too was killed, one of 
the warriors exclaimed, “There goes the last d — d horse, 
anyway.” 

At this juncture, too, with all their horses killed, and 
half the number of the scouts either killed or wounded, the 
Indians determined upon one grand charge which should set- 
tle the unequal contest. So they rallied all their forces and 
hazarded their reputation upon the aggregated assault. 

This charging column was composed of some one hun- 
dred and fifty “ Dog Soldiers ” and nearly five hundred more 
of the Brules, Cheyennes and Arrapahoes, all under the com- 
'mand of the celebrated chief, “'Roman Nose.” 

I quote from Custer again who tells of this charge as it 
was told to him by the most intelligent of the surviving 
scouts, and as it has been told dozens of times to the writer : 
“Superbly mounted, almost naked, although in full war 
dress, and painted in the most hideous manner, formed with 


262 


STORIES OF THE 


a front of about sixty men, they awaited the signal of their 
chief to charge, with the greatest confidence.” 

Their leader at first signaled to the dismounted men be- 
yond his line of horsemen to fire into the scouts, and thus 
make his contemplated charge more effective. At the mo- 
ment of the fusillade: “seeing that the little garrison was 
stunned by the fire of the dismounted Indians, and rightly 
judging that now, if ever, was the proper time to charge, 

“ Roman Nose” and his band of mounted warriors, with a 
wild, ringing war-whoop, echoed by the women and children 
on the hills, started forward.” 

“ On they came, presenting even to the brave men await- 
ing the charge, a most superb sight. 

“Soon they were within the range of the rifles of their 
friends, and, of course, the dismounted Indians had to slacken 
their fire for fear of hitting their own warriors. 

“ This was the opportunity for the scouts. 

“Now!” shouted Forsyth, and the scouts, springing to 
their knees, and casting their eyes coolly along the barrels of 
their rifles, opened upon the advancing savages a deadly fire. 

“ Unchecked, undaunted, on dashed the warriors; steadi- 
ly rang the sharp reports of the frontiersmen. “Roman Nose ” 
falls dead from his horse; “Medicine Man” is killed, and 
for an instant the column, now within ten feet of the scouts, 
hesitates — falters. 

“ A cheer from the scouts, who perceived the effect of 
their well directed fire, and the Indians begin to break and 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


263 


scatter in every direction, unwilling to rush to a hand to hand 
struggle. 

“A few more shots and the Indians are forced back be- 
yond range. 

“Forsyth inquires anxiously, “ Can they do better than 
that, Grover? ’ 

“ I have been on the Plains, General, since a boy, and 
never saw such a charge as that before.” 

“All right, then, we are good for them.” 

It was in this grand charge, led in person by their 
greatest of all warriors, “Roman Nose,” that Lieutenant 
Beecher was mortally wounded. He suffered intensely and 
lingered some hours before his manly spirit was extinguished. 

He and I were warmly attached to each other. I knew 
“full well” the generous impulses of his warm young heart, 
and his perfect unselfishness. 

He was brave, the very soul of honor and a favorite in 
all garrisons. 

I could not write of his death without interpolating here 
my simple tribute to his memory. It is a burning shame that 
such as he are so frequently offered up on the altar of a bar- 
barous policy, dictated by a great Government, that should 
be honest enough with its wards to preclude the possibility 
of such outbreaks as our so-called Indian wars. 

Before night closed in on the terrible tragedy of that day, 
the Indians charged upon the weary and beleagured scouts 
again and again, but were as often driven back by the dread' 


264 


STORIES OF THE 


ful accuracy of the rifles of the besieged with an increasing 
loss each time. 

The earnestly looked for darkness at last brought the 
welcome respite, and it was made possible for the unfortunate 
men to steal a few moments’ rest, that was needed — oh ! how 
much ! 

Hungry, exhausted, with an empty commissariat, every 
animal dead, four comrades lying stark upon the dreary sand, 
and a greater number writhing in all the agony of torturing 
wounds; a relentless enemy ever watching; no skilled hand 
to alleviate the sufferings of the dying, and the only hope of 
help that might never come, more than a hundred miles 
away. 

Think of it, grasp it if you can ! 

Later, while the night yet thickened, preparations were 
made to meet the events that must surely come with the 
morning’s light, and the little fort, for it now had certainly 
reached the dignity of that title — was made still stronger ; for 
gabions, the swollen carcasses of the dead horses were used, 
and huge slices were cut from their thighs for food. 

Thank God! the tortures of thirst were not added to their 
other sufferings, for water was easily obtained by digging a 
short distance. 

Thus strengthened, a midnight council of war was held 
in whispers, and it was determined to send two of their num" 
ber to Fort Wallace, as desperate as the undertaking was — 
and a mere boy — Stillwell and another scout (of whose name 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


265 


I have no memorandum at hand) expressed their willingness 
to make the attempt. 

The brave men crawled from the “ island” to run the 
gauntlet of the watchful savages ever on the alert to take ad- 
vantage of the least unfavorable demonstration on the part of 
their prey, as they fully believed them. 

We will leave them making their way cautiously but 
hopefully in the darkness, for it is not the purpose of the 
writer at this time to tell of the noble efforts of these brave 
messengers in their “hair-breadth escapes’’ on their lonesome 
and perilous journey. 

The details would furnish a separate chapter which may 
some day be given, but let us turn to the worn out and 
wounded band of heroes again, and learn how they fared dur- 
ing the long days before help could possibly reach them, 
even were Stillwell and his companion able to reach Wal- 
lace. 

The sun rose in all the splendor of a Kansas Autumn 
morning, but the landscape bore the same horrid features of 
the day before. All through the weary hours the Indians 
kept up an incessant firing, but no serious charge was at- 
tempted— they had had more than they anticipated in their 
efforts in that direction yesterday— so the scouts pretty effect- 
ually intrenched, suffered but little from the wild firing of 
their besiegers, but it was annoying, and kept the scouts ever 
prepared for a possible charge, the result of which might not 

be so fortunate as that of former ones. 

24 


266 


STORIES OF THE 


Night again came to throw its mantle of rest upon the 
little band, and shortly after dark two more scouts were sent 
out to reach Fort Wallace, if possible, but failed to get be- 
yond the line of watchful savages and were compelled to 
abandon the idea. 

Tnis unsuccessful attempt to go for help cast a gloom 
over the command, for it could not yet be known what had 
been the fate of the other two who had gone out the night 
previously. 

The next day the state of affairs assumed a more cheer- 
ful aspect — if that could be possible — the squaws and child- 
ren had disappeared, which indicated a retreat upon the part 
of the Indians, although they still kept up their firing at in- 
tervals — perhaps they too were getting short of ammunition 
and provisions ! 

In the afternoon, to >, they hoisted a white rag upon a 
pole and expressed a desire to talk, but our heroes were too 
wary to be caught with such chaff as that, for with Indians a 
flag of truce means a massacre half the time. 

That night, two more men were sent out, and these car- 
ried that famous dispatch of Forsyth’s, which should hold its 
place in history with that other memorable one of Grant’s : 
“ I intend to fight it out on this line if it takes all summer. ” 
Forsyth’s read : 

“lam ona little island, and have still plenty of ammu- 
nition left. We are living on mule and horse meat, and are 
entirely out of rations. If it were not for so many wounded 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


267 


I would come on and take the chance of whipping them, if 
attacked. They are evidently sick of their bargain. I can 
hold out for six days longer, if absolutely necessary, but 
please lose no time.” 

The morning of the fourth day, on the now historical 
little island, broke somewhat more cheerful still; the Indians 
could be seen rapidly moving away, only a few, comparative- 
ly, remaining in sight, to wait until entire exhaustion and 
starvation should place the scouts in their power — but they 
little knew the metal of the men lying behind those breast- 
works of rotten carcasses, or they too, would have gone with 
the old men women and children of the tribe. 

But few shots were fired by the scouts in reponse to the 
occasional random fusillade of the Indians ; they content- 
ed themselves with saving their ammunition for a possible 
last grand act in the drama, and only shooting when an In- 
dian came within certain range, and then he was sure to 
be sent to the “happy hunting grounds.” 

Night again came, with its relative rest, and then anoth- 
er weary day of watching and waiting, without any special 
demonstration on the part of the Indians. 

But new horrors made their appearance in the shape of 
gangrened wounds, and suffering for want of food. The 
putrid flesh of the dead horses and mules was all that remain- 
ed that would support life, and however revolting, it had to 
be swallowed. The nauseating effluvia of the rapidly decay- 
ing carcasses too, made the place almost intolerable, and so 


268 


STORIES OF THE 


insufferable did it become that the General told those who 
were disheartened to go, but all to a man, to their honor be 
it recorded, refused, electing to remain with their companions 
in arms— to be rescued, or die with them. 

Two more days of torture and then, on the ridge between 
them and the golden sunlight, gleamed the bright bayonets of 
Col. Carpenter and his column of “ the boys in blue.” 

Their Havelock had reached this American Lucknow, 
and cheer after cheer — feeble though they were — went up 
from the little island, and our story closes with the rescue of 
these o’er brave men. 



OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


269 


A LIVELY RACE WITH THE KIOWAS. 

Knowing that my friend, Theodore Sternbergh, Esq., 
now of St. Louis — son of Rev. L. Sternbergh. D. D., of Ells- 
worth — sometime in the early settlement of Ellsworth county, 
had experienced one or two hair-breadth escapes from the 
Kiowas, who, at that time, under the chieftainship of the 
dreaded Satanta, hung on the edge of the settlements to 
gather a few scalps, I desired him to jot down at his leisure, 
something of the stirring events that had come under his own 
observation during the time he and I were pleasantly situated 
as neighbors on the classic Smoky Hill, then a decided Indian 
country. The result of that request I herewith give our read- 
ers, assuring them it is veritable history. My friend writes 
me : 

“You are aware that in the winter of 1870 I had located 
a homestead in Rice county, covering what is known as the 
Stone Corral, on the Little Arkansas river. On the evening 
of the 6th of August, 1870, in company with A. E. Mat- 
thews, of Wilson, I started from Ellsworth to visit my place. 
We obtained a buggy at one of the stables in Ellsworth, and 
a good-sized, raw-boned, razor-backed, unfortunate livery 
horse, with Matthews’ mare, composed our team. Stopping 


270 


STORIES OF THE 


at Father’s place on the Smoky, while Matthews remained in 
the buggy, I brought out the necessary supplies for the trip. 
For arms we had a double-barreled shot gun and a revolver 
each, with plenty of powder and buckshot. We did not an- 
ticipate any trouble, but, expecting to be absent several days, 
we intended to kill some wild turkeys. 

“ Taking the Fort Sill trail, we drove several miles south 
of Bradley’s Springs and went into camp on the morning of 
the 7th. As soon as it was light we resumed our journey. 
The morning was very foggy. As soon as the sun came up 
and the fog was dispelled so that objects could be readily 
seen, the country appeared to be alive with antelope and we 
discharged the shot gun and several loads from the pistols at 
them, but without killing any. The Fort Sill trail, you re- 
member, after it crosses the large flat south of the Smoky, 
and approaches the Little Arkansas, passes across the heads 
of innumerable ravines or gullies, that trend toward that 
river. This portion of the road is very rough for several 
miles, but before crossing the eastern fork of that river, the 
trail is even and good.” 

“ The sun was now fairly up, and we were driving rapidly. 
While I was very busy attending to my animals, as we ap- 
proached the east fork, Matthews started up from his seat, 
saying he saw a herd of buffalo ; I replied that I thought this 
impossible, as I had already been all through the country 
where we then were the previous week, and felt sure there 
could be no buffalo anywhere near us. We were now begin- 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


271 


ing to descend toward the bottoms along the east fork. In 
another moment he said : ” 

“Those are horses, I see eight of them.” 

“ I replied, if you see horses, there are Indians about; 
and immediately stopped the team. Looking at the objects 
he pointed out, I saw there were eight horses, apparently 
feeding, about half a mile from us. Almost at the same 
moment the riders — until then unseen— straightened up in their 
saddles and dashed toward us; Indians, sure enough! The 
horses scented them, and, turning, began to run. We were 
nearly twenty miles from the settlements and so determined 
that our best plan was, to put back for the broken ground, 
where, perhaps we might place the team in some depression 
and prevent their being stampeded, while we made the best 
fight we w ere able. Matthews took the reins, while I pre- 
pared our arms for the expected fight. Placing the pistols on 
the seat, so as to be handy in case of close quarters, I took 
the shot gun for the purpose of loading it. I looked som e 
time for the powder flask, but was unable to find it, and 
asked Matthews where he had placed it. He said ‘^hadn’t 
seen any powder/' and sure enough there was no flask in the 
buggy. We had no reloads for our pistols, and things began 
to look slightly bilious. The number of our pursuers had, 
in some way, been multiplied by two, and they were after 
us as fast as their ponies could travel. We were not prepar- 
ed for a fight, even if the odds had not been so great, and 
our only chance was to run for it, and try to reach the hay 


272 


STORIES OF THE 


camp at Bradley’s Springs. While the road was smooth, our 
team gallantly held their own, and perhaps would have won 
in time, had the road continued level.” 

“We soon reached the broken ground, and our horses 
were fast becoming unmanageable in crossing the gullies. At 
the bottom of the ravines we could not follow the turns of 
the road so as to get the safe crossings, but took them straight 
and on the fly. The Indians now rapidly gained on us, and 
were hardly a quarter of a mile behind. We could hear their 
yells — not the most pleasant music in the world to us at that 
time. Our buggy was liable to be smashed at any moment. 
There was but one thing for us to do — to leave it and mount 
our horses. Turning them against the face of a hill steep 
enough to stop them, we unharnessed our quadrupeds about 
as quickly as ever that thing was done in Kansas, and sprang 
upon them, saddleless as they were. I happened to get the 
razor-back. The Indians were almost upon us, and yelling 
like a pack of wolves.” 

“ Then ensued a magnificent race — prize, our hair. It 
was up hill and down ; my hat flew off at the first ditch ; I 
did not stop to pick it up, the truth is, it was a little out of 
fashion. I now have great respect for my livery horse, for 
he proved to be like a singed cat, better than he looked. For 
a short time he breathed so hard, that I feared he would fail 
altogether.” 

“Matthews’s mare ran easily, but soon the horse received 
somehow a fresh supply of wind, and we ran neck and neck. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


273 


We gradually gained on our pursuers, and when about four 
miles south of Bradley’s Springs were nearly a mile ahead, 
and they gave up the chase.” 

“We went on to Harker, and with a small escort I return- 
ed for the buggy. The vehicle was uninjured, but the Indi- 
ans had taken every strap of the harness, blankets, picket 
ropes, etc. Part of our lunch consisted of some of Hon. D. 
B. Long’s cheese ; this the Indians had not touched, but all 
the other eatables had disappeared.” 

“ This race would have been splendid to have witnessed 
from the grand stand — the time was good, though no record 
of it was made. My physical feelings were too deeply hurt 
to appreciate humor just then. I was entirely satisfied with 
bare back riding, and it grieved me to have my friends insist 
that I should sit down and tell them all about it — I preferred 
to stand up.” 

“ If you know the Indian who has my shot gun, please 
tell him chickens are plenty, and I wish, he would return it. 
He may keep the hat. Perhaps I might not inopportunely 
add that the powder flask was found hanging on the fence at 
the ranch on the Smoky, just where we had left it.” 


274 


STORIES OF THE 


SE-QUO-YAH. 

In only a few instances have the people, in naming the 
streams, and the more than a hundred counties of the State, 
perpetuated the legends and the memory of the heroes of the 
Indian tribes that only a few short years since held almost 
undisputed possession of Kansas. 

The Indian’s speech lingers oftener on the rivers and 
mountains of New England than in the New West — to its 
shame be it said. 

We wish our people would adhere more rigidly to the 
beautiful sounds of the Sioux, Cheyennes or Arrapahoes — 
certainly Ta-to-ka is more euphonous than Skunk Creek, or 
Ta-chanta-wak-pa than Turkey or Dry Creek, and Ninnescah 
is more poetical than Smithville or Bungtown. 

Aside from the mere aesthetics of the idea, with the 
Indian names are associated the legends, traditions or his" 
toric facts of the locality, for the Indian constructs his- no- 
menclature out of actual occurrences on the spot he names t 
and with the preservation of these primitive appellations by 
us, veritable history is secured to the state — unimportant 
and trifling in some instances perhaps — but oftener interest- 
ing and worthy of a place in our archives. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


275 


Sequoyah county, or as it should be written, Se-Quo-Yah, 
is named in honor of one of the most remarkable men- In- 
dian though he was — of any age. 

This county which lies beyond the one hundrjth merid- 
ian, in the State of Kansas — that much talked of and written 
about astronomical line, on which and ulterior to, some me- 
teorologists would have us believe lies a veritable desert, where, 
on nothing will grow— in fact has a soil whose inherent fer- 
tility compares favorably with any on the continent, and which 
by a system of irrigation — simple and ridiculously inexpen- 
sive — inaugurated only last season by one of its first settlers, 
Hon. C. J. Jones, has produced results that astonished even 
its energetic projector. By a series of shallow ditches the 
water is drawn from the Arkansas, which falls nearly ten feet 
to the mile— the odium which attached, but wrongfully to that 
region has been dissipated, and farms are eagerly sought for ; 
however, it is not of this I propose to write, but of the cele- 
brated Indian from whom the county takes its name. 

The mother of Se-Quo-Yah the blood of whose veins was 
slightly tinged with English, was a Cherokee, and possessed 
the characteristic beauty of her race in an eminent degree. 

The family, without aspiring to the aristocracy of the 
tribe, “ was prominent and influential, and some of her broth- 
ers became members of the council.” 

In 1768 the mother of Se-Quo-Yah met and married a 
German peddler, known as George Gist, evidently an igno- 
rant, unimportant tramp of a fellow, whose name would never 


276 


STORIES 01 THE 


have come down to history but for the fact that he was the 
father of Se-Quo-Yah and with that fact, based upon the evi- 
dence of the mother of Se-Quo-Yah, George Gist steps down 
and out, long before hi remarkable son was born, or in the 
language of Se-Quo-Yah’ s historian, “gathered together his 
effects, went the way of all peddlers, and never was heard of 
more.” 

The historian,* whom we shall now quote in full, in tell- 
ing the wonderful story of Se-Quo-Yah says : 

“ George Gist left behind him in the Cherokee Nation a 
woman of no common energy, who through a long life was 
true to him she still believed to be her husband. The desert- 
ed mother called her babe ‘Se-Quo-Yah’ in the poetical lan- 
guage of her race. No truer mother ever lived and cared for 
her child, whom she reared with the most watchful tenderness. 
With her own hands she cleared a little field and cultivated 
it, and carried her babe while she drove up her cows and 
milked them.” 

“ His early boyhood was laid in the troublous times of 
the war of the Revolution yet its havoc cast no deeper shadows 
on the widow’s cabin.” 

“As he grew older he showed a different temper from 
most Indian children. He lived alone with his mother,- and 
had no old man to teach him the use of the bow, or to indoc- 
trinate him in the religion and morals of an ancient, but per- 
ishing people. He would wander alone in the forest, and 


* Hon. W. A. Phillips, of Salina, Kansas. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


277 


showed an early mechanical genius in carving with his knife 
many objects from pieces of wood. He employed his boyish 
leisure in building houses in the forest. As he grew older, 
these mechanical pursuits took a more useful shape. The 
average native American is taught as a question of self-re- 
spect to despise female pursuits. To be made a ‘ woman * is 
the greatest degradation of a warrior.” 

“ Se-Quo-Yah first exercised his genius in making an im- 
proved kind of milk pans and skimmers for his mother. Then 
he built her a milk house, with all suitable conveniences, on 
one of those grand springs that gurgle from the mountains of 
the old Cherokee Nation. As a climax, he even helped her 
to milk her cows; and he cleared additions to her fields, and 
worked them with her. She contrived to get a petty stock of 
goods, and traded with her countrymen. She taught Se-Quo- 
Yah to be a good judge of furs. He would go on expeditions 
with the hunters, and would select such skins as he wanted 
for his mother before they returned. In his boyish days the 
buffalo still lingered in the valleys of the Ohio and Tennes- 
see. On the one side the French sought them. On the other 
were the English and Spaniards. These he visited with small 
pack horse trains for his mother. For the first hundred years 
the European Colonies were traders rather than agricultur- 
ists. Besides the fur trade, rearing horses and cattle occupied 
their attention. The Indians east of the Mississippi, and liv- 
ing between the Appalachian Mountains and the Gulf of 
Mexico, had been agriculturists and fishermen. Buccaneers, 
25 


278 


STORIES OF THE 


pirates, and even the regular navies or merchant ships of 
Europe, drove the natives from the haunted coast. As they 
fell back, fur-traders and merchants followed them with pro- 
fessions of regard and extortionate prices. Articles of Euro- 
pean manufacture —knives, hatchets, needles, bright cloths, 
paints, guns and powder — could only be bought with furs. — 
The Indian mother sighed in her heart for the beautiful things 
brought by the Europeans. The warrior of the southwest 
saw with terror the conquering Iroquois, armed with the 
dreaded ‘fire-guns’ of the stranger. When the bow was laid 
aside or handed to the boys of the tribe, the warriors became 
the abject slaves of the traders. Guns meant gunpowder and 
lead. These could only come from the white man. His 
avarice guarded the steps alike to bear meat and beaver skins. 
Thus the Indian became a wandering hunter, helpless and 
dependent. These hunters traveled great distances, some- 
times with a pack on their backs weighing from thirty to fif- 
ty pounds. Until the middle of the eighteenth century horses 
had not become very common among them, and the old In- 
dian used to laugh at the white man so lazy that he could not 
walk. A consuming fire was preying upon the vitals of an 
ancient and simple people. Unscrupulous traders, who 
boasted that they made a thousand per cent, held them in the 
most abject thrall. It has been carefully computed that these 
hunters worked, on an average, for ten cents a day. The 
power of their old chiefs grew weaker. No longer the old 
man taught the boys their traditions, morals or religion. 


LD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


279 


They had ceased to be Pagans without becoming Christians. 
The wearied hunter had fire-water given him as an excite- 
ment to drown the sorrows common to white and red. Slow- 
ly the politics, customs, industries, morals, religion and char- 
acter of the red race were consumed. 

In this terrible furnace of avarice the foundations of 
our early aristocracies were laid. Byrd in his “History 
of the Dividing Line ” tells us that a school of sixty-seven 
Indian children existed in 1720, and that they could all read 
and write English ; but adds, that the jealousy of the traders 
and land speculators, who feared it would interfere with 
their business, caused it to be closed. Alas ! the people 
had encountered the iron nerve of Christianity, without 
reaping the fruits of its intelligence or mercy. 

Silver although occasionally found among the North 
American Indians, was very rare previous to the European 
conquest. Afterward, among the commodities offered, were 
the broad silver pieces of the Spaniards, and the old French 
and English silver coins. With the most mobile spirit the 
Indian at once took to them. He used them as he used his 
shell-beads for money and ornament. Natural artificers were 
common in all the tribes. The silver was beaten into rings, 
and broad silver bands for the head. Handsome breast- 
plates were made of it, necklaces, anklets and rings for the 
toes. 

It is not wonderful that Se-Quo-Yah’s mechanical genius 
]£d him into the highest branch of art known to his people, 


280 


STORIES OF THE 


and that he became their greatest silversmith. His articles 
of silverware excelled all similar manufactures among his 
countrymen. 

He next conceived the idea of becoming a blacksmith. 
He visited the shops of white men from time to time. He 
never asked to be taught the trade — he had eyes in his head, 
and hands, and when he bought the necessary material and 
went to work, it is characteristic that his first performance 
was to make his bellows and his tools ; and those who saw 
them say they were well made. 

Se-Quo-Yah was now in comparatively easy circumstan- 
ces. Besides his cattle, his store, his farm, he was a black- 
smith and silversmith. In spite of all that has been alleged 
about Indian stupidity and barbarity, his countrymen were 
proud of him. He was in danger of shipwrecking on that 
fatal sunken reef of American character, popularity. Hos- 
pitality is the ornament, and has been the ruin, of the Abo- 
rigines. His home, his store or his shop became the resort 
of his countrymen ; there they smoked, talked, and learned 
to drink together. 

After Se-Quo-Yah had grown to man’s estate he learned 
to draw. His sketches, at first crude, at last acquired con- 
siderable merit. He had been taught no rules of perspec- 
tive, but while his perspective differed from that of an Eu- 
ropean, he did not ignore it like the Chinese. He had now 
a very comfortable hewed-log residence, well furnished with 
such articles as were common with the better class of white 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


281 


settlers at that time, many of them, however, made by him- 
self. Before he reached his thirty-fifth year he became ad- 
dicted to convivial habits to an extent that injured his busi- 
ness, and began to cripple his resources. 

Unlike most of his race, however, he did not become 
wildly excited when under the influence of liquor. Se-Quo- 
Yah, who never saw his father, and never could utter a word 
of the German tongue, still carried deep in his nature an odd 
compound of Indian and German trancendentalism ; essen- 
tially an Indian in opinion and prejudice, but German in in- 
stinct and thought. A little liquor only mellowed him — it 
thawed away the last remnant of Indian reticence. He talk- 
ed with his associates upon all the knotty questions of law, art 
and religion. 

Indian Theism and Pantheism were measured against the 
Gospel, as taught by the land-seeking, fur-buying adventur- 
ers. A good class of missionaries had indeed entered the 
Cherokee Nation; but the shrewd Se-Quo-Yah, and the dis- 
ciples this stoic taught among his mountains, had just sense 
enough to weigh the good and the bad together, and strike 
an impartial balance as the footing up for this new proselyt- 
ing race. It has been erroneously alleged that Se-Quo-Yah 
was a believer in, or practiced the old Indian religious rites. 
Christianity had, indeed, done little more for him than to un- 
settle the pagan idea— but it had done that. 

It was some years after Se-Quo-Yah had learned to pre- 
sent the bottle to his friends before he degenerated into a 


282 


STORIES OF THE 


toper. His natural industry shielded him and would have 
saved him altogether, but for the vicious hospitality by which 
he was surrounded. With the acuteness that came of hig for- 
eign stock, he learned to buy his liquor by the keg. This 
species of economy is as dangerous to the red as to the white 
race. The auditors who flocked to see and hear him were 
not likely to diminish while the philosopher furnished both 
the dogmas and the whisky. Long and deep debauches were 
the consequence. Still it was not in the nature of Se-Quo- 
Yah to be a wild shouting drunkard. 

All the great social questions were closely analyzed by 
men who were fast becoming insensible to them. When he 
was too far gone to play the mild sedate philosopher, he be- 
gan that monotonous singing, whose music carried him back 
to the days when the shadows of the white man never dark- 
ened the forests, and the Indian’s canoe alone rippled the 
tranquil waters. 

Should this man thus be lost? He was awakened to his 
danger by the relative to whom he owed so much. His tem. 
per was eminently philosophic. He was as he proved, capa- 
ble of great effort, and great endurance. By an effort which 
few red or white men can or do make, he shook off the habit, 
and his old nerve and old prosperity came back to him. It 
was during the first few years of this century that he applied 
to Charles Hicks, a half breed, afterward principal chief of 
the Nation, to write his English name. Hicks, although 
educated after a fashion, made a mistake in a very natural 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . 


283 


projects. In his journey to the west, as well as to Washing- 
ton, he had an opportunity of examining different languages, 
of which, as far as lay in his power, he carefully availed him- 
self. His health had been somewhat affected by rheumatism, 
one of the few inheritances he got from the old fur-peddler 
of Ebenezer ; but the strong spirit was slow to break. 

He framed a theory of certain relations in the language 
of the Indian tribes, and conceived the idea of writing a 
book on the points of similarity and divergence. Books were 
to a great extent closed to him ; but as of old, when he be- 
gan his career as a blacksmith by making his bellows, so now 
he fell back on his own resources. This brave Indian philos- 
opher of ours was not the man to be stopped by obstacles. 
He procured some articles for the Indian trade he had learn- 
ed in his boyhood, and putting them and his provisions and 
camp equipage in an ox-cart, he took a Cherokee boy with 
him as driver and companion, and started out among the 
wild Indians of the plain and mountain, on a philological 
crusade such as the world never saw. 

One of the most remarkable features of his experience 
was the uniform peace and kindness with which his brethren 
of the prairie received him. They furnished him means, too, 
to prosecute his inquiries in each -tribe or clan. 

That they should be more sullen and reticent to white 
men is not wonderful when we reflect that they have a sus- 
picion that all these pretended inquiries in science and re- 
ligion have a lurking eye to real estate. Several journeys 


284 


STORIES OF THE 


were made. The task was so vast it might have discouraged 
him. He started on the longest and last journey. There 
was among the Cherokees a tradition that part of their nation 
was in New Mexico, separated from them before the advent 
of the whites. Se-Quo-Yah knew this, and expected in his 
rambles to meet them. He had camped on the spurs of the 
Rocky Mountains, he had threaded the valleys of New Mexi- 
co, looked at the adobe villages of the Pueblos, and among that 
race, was neither Spaniard nor Indian, with swarthy face and 
unkempt hair. He had occasion to moralize over those who 
had voluntarily become the slaves of others even meaner than 
themselves, who spoke a jargon neither Indian nor Spanish, 
Catholics in name, who ate red pepper pies, gambled like the 
fashionable frequenters of Baden, and swore like troopers. 

It was late in the year 1842 that the wanderer, sick of a 
fever, worn and weary, halted his ox-cart near San Fernando 
in Northern Mexico. Fate had willed that his work should 
die with him. But little of his labor was saved, and that not 
enough to aid any one to develop his idea. Bad nursing, 
exposure and lack of proper medical attendance killed him. 
On the far off Rio Grande he sleeps — the greatest man of his 
race. 

On the pages of American Classics Se-Quo-Yah’s name 
will ever shine. He was even greater than Cadmus, the 
Phoenician. All honor to those who, imbued with a spirit of 
the highest emulation, named one of our counties at least 
after Se-Quo-Yah. 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


285 


Congress at one time contemplated removing his remains 
east and erecting a suitable monument over them, but the idea 
has never been carried out and probably never will be, for if 
the Father of his Country has nothing in the shape of the en- 
during marble to commemorate his virtues, how much less 
may we expect that this poor Indian, though the first to vital- 
ize and preserve the Indian language to history shall be thus 
remembered! Se-Quo-Yah’s monument will ever be the hal- 
lowed reverence in the hearts of his people, and that magnifi- 
cent area of our beautiful prairie whose legal limits bear his 
name. 



286 


STORIES OF THE 


WILL THE BUFFALO BECOME EXTINCT ? 

During Kendall’s Santa Fe Expedition in 1841, the party 
one evening while camping somewhere on the banks of the 
Arkansas, were visited by an old trapper, and a discussion 
arose in relation to the immense numbers of buffaloes that 
were feeding in the bottom a few miles up the river. Ken- 
dall asked the old man : 

“How many buffaloes did you ever see atone time?” 

“Can’t say exactly; probably between two and three 
millions,” replied the old man, with a cool matter-of-fact 
indifference, as much as to_say, that he was keeping as 
near the truth as possible. 

I do not say that I have seen two or three millions at 
the same time, but I have stood upon a high roll of the prai- 
rie, with neither tree nor brush to obstruct the vision in any 
direction, and have seen these animals grazing upon the plain 
and darkening it at every hand. And once I rode with a 
party of friends in the winter of 1868 for four days through 
one continuous herd. 

There are perhaps larger herds in Northern Texas than 
anywhere else on the western prairies, because their most 
powerful enemies, the Indians, do not range so low down on 
account of the whites, but every year their numbers are 


OLD SANTA FE TRAIL. 


287 


rapidly decreasing, and their range, owing to the encroach- 
ment of the settlements from the east and south, becomes 
more and more circumscribed. 

It would seem impossible, especially to any one who 
has seen them as numerous as the sands on the sea-shore, on 
their immense natural pastures, that they could ever be ex- 
tinct, yet when we look back only a decade ago, and remem- 
ber how even near Pawnee Rock they roamed in such num- 
bers, and now how far off the nearest are, we feel compelled 
to believe that, like the Dodo and Great Auk, in a few years 
they will be seen only stuffed, and in a museum. 







i 














































































































































. 












































* 






■ 



/ 


I 





























. 










j ■' 











































-• 

















































^ 4 







































» 

* 
















































V*O v 


<.**/> : 
* 47 ^ * 

4 V ** 




* < o 

^M\\wy * K> 

r£> ^ '*v£> 5 ~* < 0 ," 

* O N 0 ° <]y 

a? v \L!oL'* "> V *v_°* o 

AT *V i ^K?Nfe ,< ' ^ <t, > 

■* * ^ A V ♦ j 

V<^ v 

o 4 V^ 

• ^ ^ 


• 


• « ^ * A* ^ w f n 4 V 7 V < * A s 4 - 

A^ * l 1 a 4 ^JV o^ c ° W 0 ♦ afi 

» 4 4* ♦W^b- f ^ C° *l^v> °o j* V 

^ :Hm*\ ^ .*«?^av. -* 

# H Q 


< 


t / 0 




^ O 
o > 


r O 1 * 0 ^ * 

0.0- o^ *.,i* a0 'V *.«o . 

♦. V ^, V ^4^*. 0 ^ Jrsjgfe. % ^ v 



* ^ A, 



!». * <1^ c o t-^UAf^S c\J + 1 

*> v v c\ , 0 r * * V/* V. 



V v « t * o * r> . <v 


#■ • 



♦ * 



* ® * 0 0 ^ * 0 • 1 * ’ '"*' » H 0 °‘ ^ ^ 

V ***«- c\ % VV % *> O * r “v 

.-0, Ta A^ .,-\ A t-.f2.5l* 


<0 vP * 
<£? ^ 



o ^ ^ * 


» * . 

• A>^ *. 

* V O 



• ^ 4? * 

; v-v • 


- c ‘ 7 vP 

* «? 'Ca, « 

•» ^ - 




A V <U 'O**’ 4 <G ^7'.»* 

<^ V « l / s <P . fvV o # a . T b~ ■ 

t * *£ <* vJ 0 csxv^ * *> C> A 

<J * Va - VI _ *Afv^Wb O 


o v 

X° VV 

\k* * 


* * 






o > 


0 ^ 

*y <s> *.-.■•• a v -o **TT,~*\o° ^ 

A^ ^ A. A. t- A . • *Pj. a^ * 

4 \f“T: %/ «fe° .*’ 

* v b IfW; / b :liSP " ' v> * 

4 * V sK 


^ ° 







* ^ « 

V*CT 



^ <^ N V 


* ^ / / 

* o « ° 0 <y 

V l *°+ 

* A v *Jt\^/h.- V. 
^V • 


. b V 

> 4 -° *+ '^jW|>» «5 °,o 

* * rP & <j> 

**' 1# aP V * 0 ^ 0 ° ^ 




0 « 0 4<b 


^ s . , r V^ 

.■^ «. V a^>'^ A,** • v b O' a(\ '-.'/P A. 


V' * Y . • °* 





